


These bodies between us

by Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, M/M, Porn with Feelings, fun with PASIVs, good times are had by all, sometimes he's a woman, where sometimes Eames forges a man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/pseuds/Roxie%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best thing about shapes is how they fit together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you turn around and realize you've been working on a fic for 5 whole years. It was time to stop dicking around and just post the thing. Happy anniversary, Inception fandom!

On the day, the job goes like clockwork, right up until the point where it doesn’t.

  
* * *  


"Oh dear, excuse me," she exclaims as she falls into Arthur's lap. A distraction in the form of a buxom blonde wriggling to right herself. She apologizes profusely the whole time, pulling down the fabric of her skirt as she struggles to get to her feet. Even so, Arthur doesn't attempt to help her up. He's frozen in place in his seat, horrified and embarrassed because there was nothing in the plan that accounted for an unexpected hard-on. 

Luckily for both of them, Eames is a professional, he stays in character. There's not even a flicker that he saw the fluke reaction of Arthur's dick, that he felt it. But, being grimly realistic, and it's impossible for Arthur to be anything else - there's no way Eames could have missed it. He's just thankful that Knudsen is hovering behind Eames and doesn't have film-covered eyes for anyone but her; even his projections too focused on Eames' forgery to spare the slightest glance at Arthur. Arthur might as well be a bit of Tom Ford clad furniture for all of the attention the man's subconscious gives him. 

"All my fault, so sorry." Eames is still babbling, trying to straighten Arthur's jacket where her fall had creased it, her dress still riding scandalously high on her thighs, much to their mark's obvious delight. 

Just as well. The mark is completely distracted, and Arthur feels safe enough shooting Eames a glare promising her a painful death and then waving her off, gritting out the words between his teeth, "No trouble at all."

He slowly gets to his feet as Eames finally totters away, leaving Arthur with one last apologetic smile, all wobbly legs on too-high heels, letting a man old enough to be her great-grandfather escort her over to the hotel's bar. Arthur takes a moment, willing away the heavy feeling between his legs, before he pats at his jacket pocket, finding what he expected there. The paper says simply, "276", in clear feminine print. Arthur buttons his jacket, leaving the lobby behind, and determinedly puts everything else out of his mind. All he has to do is finish this job, get out of town and hopefully not see or speak to Eames until they've both forgotten all about this.  
   
* * *  
   
Eames excuses himself to the restroom around the third time the mark’s hand “accidentally” brushed against one of Eames’ nipples.  
   
 Right now, Arthur has most likely already caught the lift to the first floor and found room 276. The door would be no problem for him, nor the safe, giving up their goods to him easily. In all likelihood Arthur is now sitting in one of the plush armchairs, his lap covered by a portfolio of secrets. The image makes Eames smile, as well as prompts him to break protocol. Well, it’s not as if they’re in any danger here. An old man, with lackluster secrets. Hardly worth the effort at all. 

"Are you there, Arthur?" Eames asks over the wire, wincing as the words echo loudly through his earpiece. 

"I'm working, Eames," Arthur replies after a long pause, the tightness of his voice clear even through the poor sound system.

Eames gives himself a wounded look in the bathroom mirror. It’s quite appealing on this form. "As am I." 

"Flashing your fake tits at a septuagenarian? Don't kill him, Eames, I don't want to get trapped down here."  
   
Eames snorts. Though really, the mark couldn't ask for a better way to go. They were spectacular tits. And shown off to great effect in this dress. For a straight man, Arthur has marvelous taste in ladies' fashions.

"He should be so lucky," Eames says with a dark laugh. "Randy old coot, though, I don't know how much longer I'll be able to put him off."

"Only 30 minutes left on the clock, Eames. Hold on to your maidenly virtue until then." 

"Shall I stop distracting you then?" Eames offers magnanimously.

"If you can," Arthur mutters under his breath, Eames chuckling in return.

"We should meet up after the job is done. How do you feel about crêpes?" Eames asks, nonsensical and abrupt, as the fancy strikes him. This job runs into the next one for him, in Rio with Bates the Hack. After that though...

"Ambivalent," Arthur answers, an obvious frown in his tone. "What does that--"

"Cambrais then, on the 23rd,” Eames says. “You know the place. Will half past three do for you?" 

"I'm in Muscat on the 24th. If you're serious, I guess I could catch a red-eye--" 

Eames doesn't pause for Arthur's schedule. "Cheers. Ringing off now, Arthur, speak to you soon."

He disconnects, not that it would stop stubborn Arthur if he really objected. In any event, with only 26 minutes left on the clock, Arthur doesn't have the time to fight with Eames. He smoothes the front of his dress down, adjusting the neckline so that his cleavage is a bit more manageable, and hopefully a bit less touchable. He leaves the restroom thinking of Arthur, sat up in a hotel room, possibly sulking a little as he returns to his reading, with no one there to see him.  
   
* * *

Arthur wakes up in an office conference room 26 minutes later, his world shifting away from the muted beige of the hotel walls and carpets to dark wood paneling and soft security lights. Their elderly mark drools on the marble tabletop, the PASIV open in front of him, its machinery whirring quietly.

Eames has already made his getaway, his IV line rolled up neatly.

Arthur silently packs up the PASIV, leaves the mark where he lies, and follows.

If Arthur is the best at what he does, and without any bullshit humility he would say it's pretty clear that he is; then it's because he doesn't let himself get distracted. Distractions make you sloppy, and in this line of work, you can't afford to be sloppy. So Arthur compartmentalizes.

Instead dwelling and being embarrassed, Arthur makes his way downtown to the bus depot and gets his laptop out of a rented locker. He sends an email to their client from an internet café down the street, giving him an encrypted list of the information he requested. Then he takes a taxi to a hotel by the airport. And he waits until he's settled into a hotel room, showered and changed into clean clothes before he allows himself to even think about the dream.  
   
She hadn’t been Arthur's type, the forgery Eames had come up with for the job. Too overtly pretty. Too much eye make-up, and an affected little pout to her mouth. He did have to give Eames points on the level of accuracy on the anatomy. It had been impeccable. Which is particularly notable when considering that women are not Eames' type at all.  
  
But Eames is an imaginative guy. Just on this one job, Arthur has managed to overhear Eames having phone sex with his boyfriend a startling 9 times. The sheer variety of obscenity he could manage to spout in one phone conversation was impressive, frankly. It was the detail that he put into it, that's what sticks out in Arthur's mind. How he describes just how wet his mouth would be, and the exact place behind his boyfriend's balls where Eames would bite down just to feel him twist away.  
   
Arthur is single because he chooses to be, because he isn't to a point where he misses anything about being in a relationship. Those secret details, those little things you only find out after you've been with someone long enough that you've tried everything and anything - that was when the sex was best. And he can't pretend that he doesn't miss good sex.

And it’s no wonder that Arthur had sex on the brain after being exposed to every kind of pornographic filth Eames could come up with for weeks on end. He'd be more worried if he hadn't. It’s not like he’s some kind of sex addict, obviously. He can go without. He just hasn’t needed to. Sex has just a thing that seems to happen for him, without him having to put much thought into it. He wouldn't say it's routine, but regular at least. Enough so when he does the math, it suggests a long dry spell. In fact, he frowns thinking it over, it might be the longest dry spell he's had since he'd started having sex 15 years ago.

Although when he breaks it down like that the addict thing seems a little more plausible, Arthur thinks with a grimace. But it’s not a big deal if he likes sex, likes losing himself in another person. It's not just the orgasms, obviously, he can get himself off on his own fine. He likes the giving and receiving of pleasure. How it eases the pressure and stresses of his day. And practically speaking, without it he gets tense and irritable, and becomes susceptible to inconveniently timed erections.  
   
He rolls his shoulders, and grabs a bottle of lube out of his toiletry bag because sex makes his life more enjoyable and he isn't going to apologize for that, especially not to himself.  
   
He starts off slow, propped up against the headboard, his sweats pushed down around his thighs, one hand on his cock, not thinking about anything in particular. There are always the old standbys that he’s guaranteed to find hot: the last woman he had sex with, favorite scenes from porn. He usually goes with whatever pops into his mind.  
   
Arthur shouldn’t be surprised that he can't help but think about Eames.

She hadn’t been his type, exactly, but there had been something about her. The coltish way she moved, her heavy laugh. Little details. Arthur might not have the imagination that Eames has, but he can almost picture himself meeting her in a bar. He would have laughed off her apologies then. Offered her his chair because she obviously wanted it more than he did. Maybe bought her a drink. They’d talk for a while before she would invite him back to her apartment.  
   
He’s already breathing a little heavier, his hand sure and efficient as it slides from base to tip. He’s thinking about the weight of her on his lap in the dream, how she’d moved against him. He can’t stop thinking of it. How it would have felt to move with her, against her, into her. He squeezes his cock, his other hand cupping his balls, and it feels great, almost as good as she would have, and he moans with it as he comes.  
   
His hand slows, the slickness of it on his sensitive skin wringing the last few shivers of pleasure out of him, the ones that border just on the right side of pain.  
   
He shuffles back into his underwear and pants before heading to the bathroom to wash his hands. When he comes back into the bedroom and sets up his laptop, he sighs a little, already more relaxed. He checks his watch curiously, notices that it took him less than 15 minutes to get himself to this state of relaxation. He lets himself settle against the headboard of the bed once more. It’s going to take him a bit longer to work out whether he needs to feel badly about jerking off to the thought of a dream form of a kind of coworker.  
   
At least one problem had been taken care of. Easy.

Now if only there were an easy way to keep Eames from ever mentioning what happened between them on the job the next time Arthur sees him. Arthur winces. Probably better not to hold his breath trying to come up with one.

* * *

There's a little restaurant in Cambrais that they both like. They found it-- it must be nine years ago now, when they were all living in France as often as not, the PASIV technology still in early stages. Arthur is already seated at the outdoor patio when Eames shows up. He half stands as Eames pulls out his chair. They're both wearing dark sunglasses, and light colored suits, a nod to the early summer weather. They could be any sort of dashing, metropolitan businessmen, looking as they do. Eames completes the picture, leaning across the table to buss two quick kisses across Arthur's cheeks. Arthur only tenses slightly, bless him, as he sits back down; his polite smile freezing on his face before he adapts, his dimples suddenly flashing.

"Eames," he says, all credit to him for managing to not sound stiff and unwelcoming, although Eames is sure that would be the fairest representation of how he feels at this moment. He's clearly carrying tension in his shoulders, and the dark circles under his eyes are some of the more impressive specimens Eames has seen of late. 

"Arthur, lovely to see you as always," Eames says back airily, aiming a pleasant grin at him while settling into his seat, the wrought iron sun-warmed against his back and legs.

"I bet it is. How was Bates?"

"Bates is a hack," Eames announces, waving to their waiter who is hovering discreetly nearby, and hurries over at once. Arthur orders sweet wine that only he will drink, and Eames his crêpes. 

"I thought you refused to work with him again after he left you out to dry in Hanoi."

"I did. However, I was willing to let bygones be bygones for the payday on offer. It was meant to be--"

"Easy in, easy out." Arthur is right to scoff. Eames had known better himself, and yet--

"Music to my ears, really. I was helpless to resist," Eames says, shaking his head ruefully.

The conversation between them flows easily for the next hour, tending mostly towards rumors that have been floating around about some of their common associates and comparing recent job offers. Time winds forward and Eames, feeling rather gentlemanly, doesn't even obliquely reference Arthur's indiscretion. Arthur needn't feel embarrassed. Really, if anything, Eames had been flattered by his loss of control on the Knudsen job. There are worse things than handsome men finding him attractive, regardless of the form he happens to be taking at the time. In fact, under different circumstance, were Eames unattached and Arthur a little less stridently heterosexual, Eames would love to peel those delightfully tight trousers off those slim little thighs and fuck some of the tension out of him, as Arthur so sorely needs. Someone should, he thinks, somewhat lamentfully, looking across the table at Arthur, the way he sits back in his chair, long and lean, his throat working as he finishes off his glass of wine. Even if, unfortunate to his mind, it won't be Eames himself, tied as he is to Omid.

There's a woman crossing the patio as Eames moves to light a cigarette, leggy and chic, Arthur's type to the letter. As inspirations go, it's timely. Because it wouldn't necessarily have to be Eames, himself, would it? The idea is undeniable, taking root in Eames' mind, refusing to be ignored now that Eames has conceived of it.

It isn't his problem, he reminds himself sternly, surreptitiously watching Arthur, the way his fingers wrap around his stemware, delicate and slow. An empathetic twinge at Arthur's situation is one thing. Offering himself up as the remedy is so far outside the box that the box itself is no longer visible. He should definitely mind his own business. Arthur wouldn't thank him for interfering. 

Or would he? Eames takes a slow drag of his cigarette, revising his opinion on the spot. Practical Arthur, always looking for the most logical approach. Perhaps he would even appreciate Eames proposing a low-cost, low-risk proposal for satisfying this craving of his. Or perhaps Eames is just looking for an excuse to do what he was always going to do. There's really no point in trying to fool himself, now is there?

Eventually, around the time their dishware has been cleared from the table, Arthur has managed to unclench enough to laugh at something Eames says. He must think that they might get through this postmortem without needing to have an awkward conversation, poor dear. 

It's almost a shame to have to disabuse him of that notion, and yet it's simply irresistible. Eames is too impulsive by half, he well knows. A trait that will get him into trouble one day. But probably not this one, which is good enough to be going on with for him.

"I have a proposition for you," Eames says abruptly, smirking around another cigarette. The motion takes his mouth from luxurious to obscene. It's a good look for him, as he is well aware. 

"Your hotel or mine?" Arthur jokes with a clearly cautious inflection, leaning back in his chair, and studiously ignoring Eames' pointed gaze. 

"Mine." Eames toys with the serrated edge of his dinner knife and smiles, a look that must come off as slightly predatory, considering the way it draws Arthur's eyes, sharp and focused fully on Eames.

* * *

"You want to have sex," Arthur says. "With me." That is a surprise. No, Arthur thinks, surprise is too mild for that kind of apocalyptic bomb dropping; it's completely fucking insane, that's what it is.

Eames may have lost his mind, but he moves with complete ease through the living area of his hotel room, coming to lean against the bar. "As long as we're not dismissing the notion out of hand," Eames chides him. "And it would be a business arrangement. For which I would expect compensation, of course."

"You want me to pay you to have sex in a dream," Arthur interprets. "Which is basically what I pay you to do anyway." Arthur's tone is probably a little harsher than it should be considering their continuing working relationship. 

"Be kind, Arthur." 

It's a well-deserved rebuke, and Arthur accepts it with, he thinks, reasonable good grace, considering the insanity of the circumstances. He forcibly relaxes into the cushions of his seat, takes a deep breath. He wonders if he's the first one Eames has tried this with. He has his doubts, because Eames is sounding all too matter of fact about the offer. Eames is also just in from a job with Bates, whom he can't stand. Added together it's too much of a coincidence for Arthur's tastes. He frowns, slipping his right hand into his pocket, his fingers tightening around his die. 

"Are you running low on money? You know I can front you the cash until the wire transfers from Bates come through." Most of Arthur's personal accounts are tied up in mutual funds but he should be able to free up at least $50,000 within the hour. It's not like Arthur can't afford it, if Eames is this desperate.

"A man can't receive a paycheck for casual, meaningless sex with another man as a boon to their business relationship?" Eames asks, waving a hand dismissively.

"I thought you had a boyfriend." 

"And I thought you'd be a little more open-minded, considering recent events," Eames shoots back, pointedly enough that the tips of Arthur's ear heat up. "This is a mutually beneficial arrangement, no more. It has nothing to do with my relationship. And if you're worried over Omid being jealous of all the imaginary sex I'm having, you needn't be. Just- think on it."

Arthur sighs. If he were to think this over, and at the moment he can't seem to stop himself from doing just that, then yeah, Eames is right. The idea of quick and easy sex is not something he can dismiss out of hand. And it appeals to him, the idea of living out a fantasy that he’s had. Just the thought of it has an anticipatory tug of desire coiling in his gut and tightening in his balls. If it came down to this or picking up a stranger, it's clear which one his dick prefers. The problem is that sex with a coworker tends to be the opposite of easy, and Arthur isn't sure he can justify complicating his working relationship with Eames for the sake of his dick. "Let's say I agree to this. What happens next?"

"Sex, most likely," Eames says with a wry twist to his mouth. "No recriminations, no expectations, no--"

"Mention of this ever again. That’s non-negotiable. We still have to work together." Distantly, Arthur realizes that that sounds as if the decision to do this has already been made.

Eames spreads his hands, nodding amicably. "That's perfectly fair."

"Since there's no prep work involved, I think half your regular fee would be generous," Arthur offers, his mind still scrambling over the details, while half-wondering what the hell he's getting himself into. 

"More than. If you can afford me?" Eames asks, looking down coyly and fiddling with the collar of his shirt, flashing Arthur a glimpse of a curl of ink at his collarbone.

Arthur hesitates over his answer, because the reality is, no, he isn't at all sure that he can afford to trust Eames with this. But eventually he shrugs and notes, "It's a one shot deal."

Eames smiles faintly over at him and shakes his head. "I was half-expecting that you would punch me for even suggesting it," Eames says. 

"I don't know why you have this persistent image of me as a boy scout," Arthur replies, somewhat tersely, because honestly, he would think that all the times Eames has seen Arthur drunk, half-naked, or participating in bar fights (or various combinations of the three) would hold more weight.

"Perhaps it's the fact that I've personally witnessed you escorting the proverbial little old lady across the street."

Arthur winces at the reminder. "That was one time, don't be an asshole about it," he says, and then adds impatiently, "Are we doing this or not?"

Eames tilts his head and considers him for a long moment, Arthur silently returning his gaze, before apparently accepting his decision. "Hmm, I think so," Eames says with a slight nod. 

Arthur offers Eames a seat across from him on the couch, the PASIV easily accessible on the coffee table in front of them. Eames shrugs out of his jacket and rolls up the crisp sleeves of his oxford before he sits.

"How do you want me?" Eames settles into his seat, looking up at Arthur through his eyelashes, slow and sultry. It's a move that Arthur has seen him do a million times, in this form and in others, but that doesn't make it any less effective. It sets off a slow burn in the pit of Arthur's stomach.

Arthur smiles then, dimpling easily, handing Eames an IV line, and sitting down next to him to insert his own. "Dealer's choice," he offers and hits the dispenser button. 

Eames' wicked grin is the last thing he sees before the world flips, and he exists in another hotel room, the one from the last job they pulled. Beige walls, beige carpets, beige art. The contrast between the setting and the company is all the more startling for it.

She's recognizably a peculiar amalgamation of features from the last three women Arthur dated; Elia's long legs, Anne's wild curls, and Famke's kewpie doll mouth and yet in combination these features become something entirely unique.

"You've been doing surveillance on me." Arthur notes, doing a slow circle around her. She's ever so slightly pigeon-toed, her tan uneven, and she missed a spot shaving her legs. She's impeccable, but then, Eames always is.

"Impressed?" Eames asks, and Arthur is. And also, disturbingly, flattered.

"I set the timer for three hours." She's wearing a tank-top and boyshorts, cut a little too big for her frame. Understated and effortlessly sexy, a look Arthur has always been fond of.

Eames goes about the business of stripping Arthur efficiently, none of the usual stutter steps of being undressed by a woman, as they fumble over the unfamiliarity of the knot of a tie and the clasps of suspenders.

Arthur licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry when Eames finally has him naked, his clothes pooled around his feet. "Who are you supposed to be?"

"Are you expecting me to play a character for you as well?" Eames asks thoughtfully, with the same soft raspy voice as Eames has always had, maybe purer in tone now, as Eames steps in close, head falling back, chin tipped up to meet Arthur's eyes. "We may need to renegotiate my rates."

"You're too expensive as it is," Arthur says, shaking his head, and then adds, "Kiss me." As much as he's enjoying the way Eames shivers against him, he wants that more.

It should be strange, or awkward, or something, because it's still Eames, even if the body is different, but this is easy enough, Eames pressing in tight against him, the curves of this body fitting neatly into Arthur's arms, and their mouths slickly sliding together. Eames' lips are warm, and a little sweet, they part easily for him, their tongues meeting, tasting, teasing each other. Eames kisses like-- like Arthur could have imagined Eames would; confident and slick, demanding that Arthur keep up. One of Eames' arms slips around Arthur's waist, Eames' fingertips soft against the muscles of Arthur's back.

Arthur backs off, his breathing labored already, and when he speaks he's grateful that his voice at least is still steady. "We can take this slow. Take our time."

Eames' hand on his cock coaxes Arthur forward, exploring the length and breadth of him, gently hefting his balls. "Or you could simply take me," Eames offers with a wicked little grin, Eames' fingers deliberately sliding back up to toy with his slit as Arthur gasps out his agreement.

The light in the room is low as Arthur takes Eames to bed, lets Eames push him down and straddle him and kiss him until both of their mouths are swollen and red from it. There's just enough light to see as Eames eagerly rubs against him, panties warm and damp on Arthur's thigh. If this was ever just about getting Arthur off, it isn't now. Eames likes this, wants this. 

Arthur shifts so that his dick is getting a little more attention, rubbing between her legs, teasing the both of them until Eames takes over the rhythm. Eames braces herself on top of Arthur, her hands on his pecs, her thighs spread wide for balance as she grinds into him. Her nipples are hard, obvious through the fabric of her shirt and begging for attention. Arthur tugs at them gently, rolling them between his fingers as Eames gasps. She's sensitive like this, every touch has her trembling and clutching at Arthur, rhythm forgotten as her knees clamp down on Arthur's thighs. 

"Yeah, Arthur, fuck," Eames whimpers, her face bright red, mouth falling open as she shudders over him.

"Did you just--" Arthur asks, astonished and turned on in equal measure, at how easily Eames had come.

Eames gives him a wobbly smile, expression hazy and pleased with herself. "One of the perks of the job. Now come on."

She takes Arthur's hands in hers, places them on her thighs, the muscles there still quaking with aftershocks as Arthur hooks his fingers in her panties, and she wriggles helpfully as he drags them down and off. Eames is bare between her legs, something that Arthur doesn't actually enjoy all that much. Eames would most likely change it if Arthur asked. But, Arthur frowns a little, considering, for some reason it's more interesting this way. Being not quite perfect makes it seem more real.

Eames sidetracks him by straddling him again, easing down around Arthur's dick, the muscles of her inner walls flexing and relaxing, laughing at the admittedly stupid faces Arthur must be making as she essentially milks Arthur's cock with her cunt.

Arthur groans, his hands coming up to grip Eames' hips, pressing her down as his hips lift up, enjoying the slick slide of it without latex in the way, the overwhelming heat and clutch of it. "I've never fucked anyone like this before," Arthur admits, thrusting distractedly, Eames' internal muscles still doing most of the work for him.

Eames gives him a look of overexaggerated shock and dismay. "We'll have to continue to expand your repertoire if a simple woman on top fuck is a first for you, you poor, deprived--"

Arthur interrupts, giving Eames' hair a sharp little yank, fingers tangling in the thick curls, "I meant without a condom. Asshole."

"Ah," Eames says, shifting her weight a little, settling fully into his lap, Arthur's cock in deep. "Responsible Arthur," she says, mockingly. But she relents a second later, "It's not something I do often either. Outside of dreaming, that is."

Arthur chuckles wryly. "Too much of a commitment?" he asks, letting his head flop back as Eames finally gets to her knees, his hands slowly stroking over her inner thighs, the soft skin there, damp with sweat and her own slick, as she starts to lever herself up and down.

"Something like that," Eames says over the wet sound of Arthur screwing into her. "And how do you like it thus far?"

Arthur pretends to consider it for a moment, Eames keeping the fuck shallow while he does, bouncing lightly on Arthur's lap, and it really can't be anything other than exciting, not with the sounds Eames keeps making under her breath, little demanding growls. "I think I could come like this," he manages to say. Speaking is harder than he might have wished because he can barely breathe.

"Mmm," Eames agrees, her eyes fluttering shut as Arthur works two fingers into her alongside his cock, and sets his thumb on her clit. "Same here."

It did feel amazing, better than Arthur could have expected although some of that can probably be attributed to the dream. Some of it is Eames.

It's hot and wet, of course, and the pressure inside is intense, the tight squeeze of it around his cock just shy of painful. And fuck, Arthur likes it like that, as Eames tilts forward a little, her forehead against Arthur's, her breasts brushing against his chest. The change in angle is good, Arthur's fingers holding her open as she takes his cock, Arthur's heels flat on the bed, gaining enough leverage to thrust back, and yeah, this is really just good. It doesn't take much after that. Eames fingers slip down and join Arthur's, rubbing little clumsy circles over her clit, until she throws her head back and moans, high and frantic.

"Eames, Eames," Arthur grits out, and that's all he can say before it hits him like a bullet, sharp and tearing, and he's coming too, adding to the slick between them. He sinks back into the headboard after, body still quivering, his cock still pleasantly pulsing as he slips free of Eames' body, the lack of friction making it an easy slide.

He keeps his fingers inside of her, and she shivers, oversensitized, but doesn't stop him. It's kind of fascinatingly primal, to rub his fingers through the slick mess of it, knowing that part of it is his come there inside of Eames.

Arthur rubs at her narrow shoulders with his free hand, gentling her as she gasps in his lap, still shaking. "Still two hours on the clock," he says eventually, voice low, and maybe it's a little presumptuous on his part but fuck, he wants to go again. He wants to make the most of this.

"Well," Eames says smugly, giving Arthur a very Eamesian arch look, "if this is a learning exercise, how do you feel about licking your come out of me?" And her eyes are too sharp not to have seen the answer on Arthur's face. 

They come awake in Arthur's hotel room two hours and three orgasms apiece later.

"The usual account?" Arthur asks, after a long moment of silence where they took out their lines, and straightened their clothes. He very carefully meets Eames' eyes.

"Oh, yes," Eames says, smirk in place, handing Arthur his jacket. "See you again soon," he adds as Arthur makes his way to the door, and Arthur's too well-fucked to care that Eames hadn't framed that as a question.

After the door shuts behind him, Arthur calls up the elevator, leaning against the wall, languid and satisfied and he thinks, well, that's that taken care of.

* * *

Eames meets up with Omid at a tea shop off of the West End. Given the state of their relationship, Eames might have preferred to have this tête-à-tête somewhere a little more conducive to civil conversation. Perhaps somewhere with metal detectors set at the entrances. He can only hope the endlessly renewing crowd of caffeine-dependent university students will be enough of a deterrent to discourtesy.

“If you have no intention of apologizing,” Omid says, stirring his coffee, the sight of his long fingers giving Eames his first pang of real remorse, “you must feel as though you were in the right?”

“I never once said that,” Eames lies, the better part of valor. He'd rather not have scalding coffee dropped in his lap.

Omid knows him well enough to sneer. “Then there's no point in dragging this out. I thought-- I should have known.”

Eames' relationships have a way of falling apart at the 8 month mark. The inherent problem with long distance relationships, as Eames was not the first to realize, is the sodding distances. Better now to manage them than it used to be, of course. Eames hates to think of all the relationships he's had ended over email or even, Christ, can he really be that old, _landline_.  
   
Yet modern technology means that a workaround is always on hand. It takes a bit more effort perhaps, on the performance side alone, but Eames has never minded that. It does lend itself to the occasional mishap however. Like several weeks spent in the jungles of Brazil without internet connection or cell service.

He'd warned Omid of as much before they got serious about each other. He's away more than he'll ever be around. He has a host of issues related to abandonment and self-worth, and commitment is something that often works better for him in theory than it does in practice. He prefers to avoid personal conflict using distance and humor, which seems to have been the straw on the camel’s back in this case. He doesn't blame Omid for wanting more for himself. Eames often wants more himself.  
   
Eames sees the opportunity here. He could say all of that to Omid. He could promise to be better, to try harder in the future. Forgiveness is still on offer. But, with a timely bit of self-reflection, he realizes that the days when they might have gone back to Omid's apartments and fucked past their issues have left them behind. 

It seems the most natural course of action that when Omid stands up, Eames doesn't bother to stop him leaving.

What he does do is join the queue at the counter, and pays for a refill on his tea.

"Long day?" the barista asks him, pouring his hot water.

Eames' laugh is sardonic, even to his own ears. "Long break-up."

The barista smiles sympathetically, flashing a hint of dimples as he hands Eames his cup, reminding Eames suddenly of Arthur. 

The likeness is tenuous at best; the barista too rumpled, too compact to compare to Arthur. But it strikes Eames like a kick in the gut, how close Arthur is to the forefront of his mind. It isn't the first time he's found himself wondering over the past couple of months if Arthur had found someone, if Arthur was still as untouched and alone as he had been in France.

Eames takes his tea, leaves more than thrice what he paid in the tip jar.

With Omid out of the picture, Eames is no better off than Arthur now himself. A shame because he firmly believes that people aren't meant to be alone.

* * *

"We need to make a decision about Hadid." Arthur comments, looking up from his desk, rolling up his sleeves. "Rumors and references won't get us anywhere near him; he's too paranoid."

Leoshi makes a soft noise of agreement from where she's settled herself well within the three foot radius of the oscillating fan on the window ledge. Arthur hates to state the obvious but it's hot in Muscat. It's been hot the entire three weeks Arthur has been here and will continue to be hot for at least the next 4 months. Long enough to have Arthur reconsidering all of the wool blends that make up his wardrobe.

The extraction the two of them are working together was meant to be an easy in, easy out. One level, no militarization to deal with. All their client wants is a name. And yet, from the start, nothing has gone to plan. The mark is apparently a shut-in, never leaving his home, only interacting with a few carefully vetted employees. There's no way to bribe or maneuver their way into his inner circle. Not without years that they don't have. The only gap in his security is his weakness for Islamic art. Which might signal an opening that they could use to their advantage, except--

"We're going to need to prove provenance before we even get in the same room with him. That means archival and purchase records. Unless you want to steal from the Kaaba -" Leoshi trails off.

"I say we draw the line at outright sacrilege for now," Arthur says, rubbing at his forehead and the headache building there.

Leoshi shrugs. "It'll have to be one hell of a forgery then," she says, looking at Arthur shrewdly. 

She's a damn good extractor in that way, she sees every angle. So he knows that they're both thinking it. He just doesn't want to be the one to say it. It's childish of him, but he can't bring himself to care. 

"Eames might be willing to help out for favors owed," Leoshi muses.

Arthur snorts, and adds under his breath, "Or a kidney. Or your first born child." 

Leoshi laughs as she turns back to her desk even though Arthur had only been half-joking. If there's one sure thing about Eames, it's that Arthur never knows with him; what he might ask for, what he might want.

* * *

There's almost nothing that could compel Eames to stay in London, not after all the time he put in to getting out in the first place. Yes, Eames still keeps a house in Southampton, out of a sense of erstwhile nostalgia no doubt. But given the choice he might have remained in his flat in Mombasa, until the rainy season at the very least. Only the cost of shipping a geometric lathe to Kenya was truly outrageous, and at the moment Eames is under a bit of a time crunch.

Given a month and the most expensive dremel tool known to man, Eames could have handmade plates for 20th century Spanish bearer bonds that would have his fence weeping for joy. But Anil will have his cock if Eames doesn't finish them within the week as he promised. If the geometric lathe won't come to Mohammed, etcetera, etcetera.

The machinery almost completely obscures the sound of the doorbell, except that whomever's at his front step leans into the buzzer impatiently, the high tones ringing out over the grind of gears.

"Just a moment," Eames calls out, setting aside his safety goggles, and making his way from his workshop to his front hall. It's a bit curious. No one should be here to see him. He had, in fact, taken some care in ensuring that no one would yet know he was in town. The last thing he needs at this precise moment are more demands on his time. 

Eames pulls open the front door, clocking the sound of another dreary day as he does, the pitter-pat of raindrops landing all too familiar. And on his front step, wonder of wonders, there's Arthur, looking lovely as always, unexpected but not unwelcome, not at all. He's trim and neat as ever, his hair slicked back from his face, looking completely weather-proofed, barely a spot on him. His suit impossibly pressed from what must have been a long flight over, waistcoat and all. Eames looks decidedly unkempt in comparison, in well-worn denims and a threadbare t-shirt with a hole in it's collar, a jumble of necklaces round his neck. 

"Arthur. What a surprise! Do come in," Eames offers, waving Arthur into his house. 

"I need a favor." Arthur hands over a portfolio to Eames, his stride easy as he passes into Eames' front hall, blatantly ducking his head into the kitchen and then the sitting room, checking them over. Of course - Arthur's never one to feel out of place or shy. 

He also looks just as good from behind, a thought that Eames resolutely ignores, instead turning his attention to the portfolio in his hands. "Nevermind the small talk, Arthur, let's get straight to business, shall we?" 

Arthur gives him a pained look as he turns back but says amicably enough, "Hello, Eames. Shitty weather you're having. I need a favor."

The flash of humor is appealing, the corner of Arthur's mouth twitching; almost a smile by Arthur's standards. Eames has to try not to stare, because honestly, it's more appealing than it has any rights to be. What should have been a passing interest; novelty, curiosity, call it what you will, should have been duly assuaged by their time together in Cambrais. As it turns out however, if the way his pulse has quickened is anything to go by, Eames' interest is unfortunately still piqued. 

Eames clears his throat and asks, "Payment? Timetable?"

"Leoshi and I would be willing to repay the favor in kind." Not a bad offer as far as these things go, Eames thinks, watching Arthur shrug out of his coat, hanging it himself in the hall closet, making himself very much at home. "And the client wants it done right, we have as long as it takes."

With a nod Eames opens the portfolio, skims through the reqs. Nothing too complicated, as far as Islamic art goes. A bit of calligraphy here, some marble work there. All of which well within his wheelhouse. Not that it stops him from antagonizing Arthur.

"I'm shocked, Arthur. Haraam, isn't it?"

Arthur looks as though he's barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. "I think we'd need to be more worried about that if we were Muslim, Eames."

"Sin translates, I'm fairly certain, Arthur," Eames notes, still paging thoughtfully through the portfolio. 

"Doesn't usually stop you," Arthur helpfully points out. There's something almost appraising about his gaze when Eames meets it that pings off of something deep within Eames. 

"And it won't this time," Eames says decisively. "All those holy books, all against the best things in life. Ill-gotten gains, tattoos, pork, cock sucking. Speaking of which, are you seeing anyone?" Not the smoothest of transitions, but Eames is hardly to blame for that. Even if Eames had asked out of some sort of polite interest, he wouldn't have been able to been able to resist his more self-serving instincts, not with the way Arthur's back goes stiff and his eyes turn distrustful.

His brow has wrinkled, adorably so. "No, I'm-- No."

"I thought not," Eames breaths out, bravely ignoring Arthur's glare. It was fairly obvious anyway; Arthur in a relationship is all loose-limbed, smug self-satisfaction. Arthur when single for any length of time will fairly hum with unspent energy. Too long, and he becomes a nightmare to be around, his temper short and his words too sharp. Fucking him is a public service. Eames would be doing society at large a favor by taking that stick out of Arthur's arse and replacing it with something more enjoyable. His fingers or his tongue come to mind.

Arthur tucks his hands in his pockets, tilting his head inquisitively. "What about you, are you still with-- Hjalmar?" 

"Omid was the last actually. And no." Has it been two months now, or three? It seems a long time ago that he was with someone. Which might explain why he now finds himself fascinated by the flush on Arthur's cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Eames couldn't have planned for this, but he isn't one to overlook an opportunity when it's right in front of him. 

"Forgive my crudity, Arthur, but perhaps you'd like to get laid. It just so happens that I have a PASIV in the sitting room." There's no sense in him beating around the bush, Arthur can't stand preciousness. He knows exactly what Eames is playing at and yet, he still hasn't stopped him.

"Of course you do," Arthur says flatly. But he allows it when Eames ushers him into the sitting room.

"Same fee?" Eames asks brightly, standing over the inner workings of his PASIV, already unspooling their lines. 

Arthur lets out a loud breath and shrugs as he fiddles around with rolling up his sleeves. "Why the hell not?"

Eames doesn't mess about. Arthur enters the dream nude as the day he was born, hands cupped protectively over his crotch. Eames would assume that the nudity disconcerts him less than the room itself, frills and lace that clearly belongs to a woman and just as clearly was haphazardly thrown together by Eames. The titles of the books on the shelves are all fuzzy and illegible, the nightstand in the corner is on crooked legs. But needs must, and Arthur will simply have to suffer Eames' slipshod design work.

Eames styles herself with more care using the mirror over the vanity table, petite and muscular this time around, her glossy dark hair done in a sleek bob. Her breasts are small and upturned, her nipples pert and pink. There's a tattoo on her shoulder and another at the crease of her hip, an intricate sphere with a star inside, one of his own that he would argue fits this body as well. Arthur's cock begins to stir as he takes her in, twitching with interest as Eames unashamedly strikes a pose.

"What do you think?" 

"You're lovely," Arthur responds, and Eames nods graciously as it's nothing but the truth. Arthur steps forward, eyes fixated on Eames' face.

Arthur reaches out, Eames turning her cheek into his palm as he slides the silky strands of her hair between his fingers; Eames observing, "You like brunettes."

Arthur shrugs. "It suits you," he says, visibly distracted. Eames is a head shorter than him like this, just the right height to take one of Arthur's nipples between the pretty pink bow of her lips, sucking and tonguing at the sensitive flesh until it's damp and hard and so is Arthur.

Arthur manhandles Eames around, Eames leaning back, her nose tipped up against the nape of his neck, breathing him in as he bends down. Arthur smells the same, even here, citrus and soap, clean and fresh. Eames smiles, helplessly charmed by that. 

"Do you want me to fuck you?" Arthur asks, his voice gratifyingly eager, yet still doing the respectful thing by asking. Even in a dream he must worry about how easily he could put a foot wrong, do something truly irreparable to their working relationship. Nevermind that this is a nothing more than a business transaction between two consenting adults, and Eames' own idea besides, he'd be a fool to think Arthur's sense of what's right would be assuaged by that alone. He clearly wants Eames to lead the way, to ease the path for him.

If only Arthur weren't such fun to rile. It's a flaw in his character that he finds Arthur in a temper so frankly irresistible, he's sure. Eames gives in to his baser self and makes a noncommittal noise, her voice patently disinterested, guaranteed to push Arthur's buttons. "It's your money, spend it however you please."

Arthur's grip on her tightens. "Eames." Arthur says warningly.

Eames looks over her shoulder, narrows her eyes at him, and pretends to be humoring him. "Yes, Arthur, put your cock in me."

Arthur rolls his eyes in return, slipping a hand between her legs, into her slit, finds her already wet for him, as Arthur must have known. Eames could fake it, if necessary, but wouldn't, never like this, never with Arthur. This isn't entirely for his benefit, after all. Eames quite enjoys this himself. 

Arthur can't seem to stop himself from running his hands up her body, the pads of his fingers a little rough on Eames' skin. Eames goes limp and purring against him, an open invitation to keep it going. Her breasts fit perfectly in his hands; Arthur clearly entranced by the delicate weight on them as he thumbs her nipples into hard little nubs. "A bit harder," Eames murmurs, hissing as Arthur complies. 

"You like that." It isn't a question this time.

"Mmm," Eames moans in a low voice, a voice targeted to go straight to Arthur's cock, looking for him over her shoulder, her vision gone a bit hazy around the edges. "Don't stop."

Arthur clearly had no intention of any such thing - only pausing for the moment that it takes to lie her down on the bed, and lean over her to take one of the tight little buds between his teeth.

Eames is reduced to incoherent noises, arching in to every touch of Arthur's clever mouth, completely unabashed by her own pleasure, one hand sliding low on her belly, her fingers seeking her clit. 

Arthur is making noises of his own that he will most likely regret later; a shame, as he sounds so delightful doing it, grinding his hard-on against Eames' leg. Any half-conceived plans Eames might have made to drive Arthur wild has mostly been pushed aside in favor of this - Eames writhing under his tongue, unconsciously grabbing tight at his shoulders as Arthur breaks off to switch between breasts.

Eames is gasping now, breathing in uneasy bursts. "I want--" she says on a groan, and all it takes is another hard nip of Arthur's teeth to rob her of the rest of that sentence, hoping that the leg she flings over Arthur's shoulder gets the message across.

Arthur takes his sweet time inching his way down, leaving a slow trail of kisses across her abdomen. Eames spurs him on, digging a heel into his spine, drawing his attention back up to her face. "Fuck, Arthur, just--" she says, eyes rolling back in her head as his fingers finally join hers, pushing in, feeling how soft and slick she is inside. As easy as that, Eames is desperate, wanting only Arthur's mouth on her.

Arthur slides his hand under her knee, holding her open as he finally licks in. It's all too easy for Eames then to lose himself in the sensation, and Arthur's palpable joy in giving her pleasure. He groans as Eames shatters for him, spread out and moaning Arthur's name as his tongue moves over her folds, laving up her slick. Nothing exists for Eames but Arthur's eager little noise as the flat of Arthur's tongue acquaints itself with her clit, two fingers still massaging deep within her. Eames comes like that, shivering hard, clutching most likely too hard at the curling ends of Arthur's hair. It takes a moment for Eames to catch her breath, beaming down at Arthur, pleased with herself and with him when he finally comes up for air, his face wet and sticky.

Arthur doesn't waste any time, urging Eames around with trembling hands, bending her over the edge of the bed, holding her hips steady, his cock nudging between her legs as Eames holds tight fistfuls of the sheets next to her for leverage. He pushes in then, slow and steady until he bottoms out, Eames' cunt tight and dripping wet for him. Arthur fucks her like that, raw and fast, Eames enjoying the muffled guttural noises forced out of him every time he slams home.

Eames turns his face to the side and gasps out, "That's bloody well fantastic," and Arthur must agree, reaching up to her breasts again, cupping them in his palms. Eames' back arches, and Arthur puts his weight into his thrusts, riding her down flat against the bed, his strokes becoming jagged and rough. Arthur fucks her for a long time, and when he finally reaches down for her clit, Eames locks up and judders under him, come undone again, her nails clawing at the bed, Arthur's own orgasm suddenly washing over him then, as he comes inside of her between one breath and the next.

Eames basks in the endorphin afterglow, Arthur collapsed on top of her, neither intent on moving. Eventually Arthur manages to his legs back under him, though he isn't yet all that steady on them, stumbling with a frankly adorable little frown as Eames rolls over, finally flopping down into something resembling a comfortable position on the bed, limp and lazy from coming.

"I like this tattoo," Arthur says after a comfortable pause where they lie in easy silence, gesturing toward the little star on Eames' hip, pausing briefly before he clearly gives in to impulse and leans over to suck at the inked patch of skin, tracing over the pattern with his tongue. Eames levers herself up on her elbows, giving him a slightly disbelieving look. "What?"

Eames huffs out at laugh. "It's --One of mine. Up top," Eames admits, hissing as Arthur bites down hard on the bottom edge of the tattoo, again and again, the skin around it coming up red from Arthur's teeth. If this were real, Eames would have one hell of a bruise there when Arthur was done.

"One of?" Arthur asks curiously, still nibbling at Eames' hipbone.

"Many," Eames admits, offering up a wicked smile as Arthur's eyes go hot and interested. 

"What does it mean?"

"It's West African in origin. Sesa wo suban. Transformation," Eames translates, and her toes curl a little as Arthur's lovely mobile mouth descends on her again. "A little on the nose, I realize."

Arthur offers up one of his rare grins, dimples and all, knelt between her legs. "I wasn't going to say anything."

What is it about Arthur's smile that twists him into knots? It's... unseemly, that's what it is. That Eames should find himself fancying Arthur like some school boy with a crush. 

It's an uncomfortable feeling but Eames is still more than willing to let Arthur distract him from it. "It is rather hard to speak with your mouth otherwise occupied," he notes, directing Arthur's head back down and spending a very enjoyable hour where no words are spoken at all.

The timer does run out for them eventually, Eames settling back into reality, and into his self.

"This takes me back to high school," Arthur says, with a little laugh, still lying back on Eames' chaise lounge. And there it is when Eames looks over at him; the lazy sprawl of limbs and replete smirk that Eames was waiting for.

"What's that?" Eames asks, preoccupied by the high flush on Arthur's cheeks, the way his adorable ears stick out from his head, reddened now at the tips.

"I'm just fighting the urge to clean up this mess before my mother gets home." Arthur gestures down at his lap as he sits up, drawing Eames' gaze down to the distinctive wet spot there. One of the more unfortunate side-effects of sex while dreaming. Being still fully clothed ofttimes includes the all too real discomforts of damp patches on the front of one's trousers and a sticky mess in one's pants. 

"Ah, yes. Feel free to use the facilities," Eames offers, waving a hand toward the washroom. "My mother would have my head for not being a proper host."

"She's big on propriety?" Arthur asks, offhand, still distracted and uncaring, really.

But even if Arthur had only asked unthinkingly, not out of real interest, for some reason honesty still seems in order. Eames shrugs. "She's big on hypocrisy, but then, alcoholics so often are." 

Arthur hesitates, giving him a long, searching look before he says, "Sorry."

"Not your fault, you weren't to know." Eames says, casually dismissing Arthur's concern, his mind already back to the matter at hand. "This favor on offer - it can be anything?"

"Within reason," Arthur says, a tad evasive, shooting Eames a wary look. Expecting Eames to take shameless advantage, no doubt. Not without cause, because that is in fact what Eames plans on doing. 

"As it happens, Evengi is having some... personal troubles. I could use your services on point whilst he... attends to his business," Eames says cagily.

"I haven't heard anything about Evengi dropping out of jobs," Arthur says, suspicious as ever. As though Eames needs to make up excuses to see Arthur. Not that he's above such subterfuge by any means, but he happens to have a real pressing need in this instance. Not to mention the quite salient fact that it was Arthur himself who came to him looking to exchange favors.

"It's only for the next few months or so. Normally it wouldn't be a problem but we're on a tight schedule for the Peltier job." An understatement really, but once you've heard one of Arthur's lectures on proper time management and resource allocation, you've heard them all, so Eames continues on before Arthur can interject. "Right then - can I expect you in Montreal by the end of next week?"

Arthur sighs, and how he manages to look as fresh and put together as ever whilst standing in Eames' front room as come soaks through his trousers is a question for the ages. "Send over the files, I'll see what I can do." 

"Lovely doing business with you as always, Arthur." Pleased, and already vaguely anticipatory, Eames aims an airy smile at Arthur. Eames has very few indulgences while on the job, but he thinks he's entitled to this one. "You realize that with you on the team, we could come to an arrangement with more... regularity."

"We could. As long as you realize that I'm not interested in--" Arthur trails off.

"Men?" Eames supplies the most obvious answer with a sharp grin.

Arthur frowns at him, unimpressed as ever. "In starting anything. I don't need any complications."

"Of course not. When does anyone ever need complications?" Eames teases mildly, tapping a finger against his lips. He adds when he sees Arthur's exasperated roll of the eyes, "Not to worry, Arthur. I would never dream of starting anything with you." 


	2. Chapter 2

"This job is never going to end," Leoshi says. She's been saying the same thing for the past two days that Arthur's been back in Muscat and probably the whole time that he was gone, although then at least he had the option of not having to hear it. "Nothing can be done until Eames finishes his part. I would feel better if Eames at least had some sort of time frame in mind. Did he give it to you?"

Arthur rolls his eyes behind her back. "Eames isn't a fan of double-booking. He wants to get through the job his team has scheduled before he worries about his contract with us."

Leoshi huffs angrily, rolling her desk chair another millimeter closer to the fan. She might as well climb on top of the thing at this point, it would be the only way she's going to get any closer to it. "That will mean another month, if not two, before you and I can get any sort of traction on this job."

Both Arthur's desk and the whiteboard across the room are strewn with notes, half-scribbled out ideas that have all been rejected at one time or another, most of them on the basis that Hadid would see right through them in an instant. As Arthur looks on, Leoshi starts out on another one. "Have we looked closely enough at Hadid's daughter? Maybe if we could manufacture some kind of hospital stay for her, a rehab facility perhaps. It might be enough to get Hadid off-book, create an opening to get to him."

It's not unheard of in the dreamshare community, although usually as a last ditch effort. Manipulating a mark's loved one comes with a host of complications, if only because containing and controlling responses on multiple marks generally would mean more manpower and resources than most teams have available. And also Arthur had already negated that option as a possibility 17 brainstorming sessions earlier. "Their relationship is strained. She blames him for her mother's death. His disappearance in the weeks following the funeral probably didn't help. As far as I can tell, they haven't spoken in 13 years. There's no reason to believe she'd reach out to him, even if she thought it would be her last opportunity."

"There must be a faster way to get to him." Leoshi seems to be peering over his shoulder at the whiteboard, as if the answer will suddenly appear there now, even though they've already been through all this before. "But the hell if I can see what it is. Remind me to stick to CFOs and scientists in the future. Less hassle all the way around."

"Yeah. Breaking into secure laboratories and high rises is a piece of cake," Arthur says dryly. "It's hardly like work at all."

Leoshi isn't paying attention, scowling down at her desk again. "At least then we wouldn't be spending half of our expense budget on what amounts to glorified paperweights. Can I count on you to keep on top of Eames?"

Arthur chokes back an inappropriate urge to laugh, pointing out, "Eames doesn't need a baby-sitter. He said he'd do it, he'll do it."

"Still. It's not as though you're much use to me here."

That's technically true, Arthur can do the preparatory stages of job from anywhere with a wireless connection. Taking surveillance photos and building up a dossier on the mark's security, medical history, and daily schedule do not actually require his physical presence at the team's headquarters. 

And like Leoshi said, until they get their forgeries from Eames, there's nothing for him to do in Muscat. And there are worse places to be than Montreal in early summer. It's not that Arthur needed an excuse to go to Montreal if he wanted. But somehow it's easier to accept that he does want to now that he has one.

"Thanks," Arthur says wryly. "Fine. So I'll be sticking with Eames for the time being." 

Leoshi nods, balling up the sheet of paper she had been writing on and tossing it onto the top of the pile on Arthur's desk.

Arthur ignores it. He's already pulling up flight information on his laptop, looking for connections between Muscat and Montreal.  
  
* * *  
Eames pushes the last of the security badges to the side of his work station. He'll still need Arthur to work his technological wizardry on the magnetic strips in order for them to be more than fancy bits of expertly rendered plastic, but there was plenty of time for that yet. He is pleased with himself and rightly so; clearly he's on top of everything, the job so smooth it practically runs itself, with only the slightest effort from Eames necessary. 

He glances up as Hyun Ki rolls his chair around the side of Eames' desk.

“Will you show me again, your insertion technique?” Hyun Ki asks, holding up a spool of IV line.

“Of course,” Eames agrees, rooting under his papers for the alcohol swabs he left there. “I have trouble with it myself at times,” he says. It can be tricky from that angle, he often needs help himself.

Hyun Ki takes a seat and submits patiently to having the skin of his elbow sterilized. Eames smiles at him. He normally prefers to take a supportive role in these types of jobs, it's true, but on the infrequent occasion that his leadership is called for, he enjoys it. He feels almost as a mentor for these bright young things. It's flattering, the way they hang on his every word, defer to his superior experience. Hyun Ki in particular, seems eager to learn. 

Or so he thought. Hyun Ki's free hand landing on and creeping up the inside of Eames' thigh rather says otherwise.

“You have such a gentle touch,” Hyun Ki says, his hand squeezing lightly.

Eames blinks once, slow. It's rare that he would misread a situation so drastically. “Thank you,” he says, schooling his face into a mixture of cheerfulness and neutral professionalism; in his opinion, the only face appropriate for these kinds of unforeseen developments. A quick glance over Hyun Ki's shoulder finds Ellory with her face buried in her models, noise-canceling headphones over her ears. No help there. Hyun Ki scratches over Eames' inseam. A bit higher up and he'll have discovered that Eames dressed to the left today.

He shifts so that Hyun Ki's hand falls away. “That is not a good idea,” Eames says.

“Why not?,” Hyun Ki asks. He looks up at Eames, a flush blooming across his cheekbones.

“Well...” Eames says, and then he freezes for an instant, genuinely unable to think of a reason to give to him. “It wouldn't be professional, would it?”, he offers, a bit lame perhaps, but all he can come up with. He knows that Arthur would laugh his head off if he had heard that, the absurdity of Eames of all people advocating for professionalism in the workplace. Arthur himself would be much better equipped to deal with this type of conversation. The man has a way with buzzwords that would sound ridiculous coming from Eames. Things about “appropriate boundaries” and “maintaining the integrity of the leadership structure” and other such. Eames fervently hopes it won't come to that. 

He slips the needle under Hyun Ki's skin, searching for a vein, as he seems to mull that over. 

It gives Eames time to consider his own reaction. Hyun Ki is handsome enough, and impressed with Eames. That would have been enough to be going on with under normal circumstances. And yet here he is, demurring, citing the sanctity of the working relationship of all things. Why not, indeed?

“I understand,” Hyun Ki says finally, standing, cupping a hand over his elbow, holding the needle steady.

Eames stifles a sigh of relief.

“Perhaps a drink later, then?” Hyun Ki asks, on his way back to his station. “After we're done with work for the day?”

Eames doesn't respond, ignoring the hopeful looks that Hyun Ki shoots him across the room for the rest of the day. He isn't interested, is the thing. And isn't that interesting in and of itself.  
  
* * *  
  
Arthur checked into his room at the Le-St James and spent a half an hour lying on his bed, wondering how badly it would fuck his internal clock if he just slept for 45 minutes, just to take the edge off of his jet lag. The answer was “badly”, and that Arthur couldn’t really afford to mess with his sleep regime more than he already has. If he could at least stay awake past 8 o’clock, he would call that a win, and it's not going to happen if he keeps playing the “five more minutes” game with himself.  
  
He rubs his eyes, taking another glance at his watch: it’s only a little after 6 right now. He rolls onto his side. If he doesn’t get up soon he’s going to end up falling asleep, and he’s already having a hard enough time remembering why that would be a bad idea. He sighs, sits up. He has to get out of bed, find something to distract himself for a couple of hours.  
  
Which is how he ends up at the hotel bar, checking his email on his phone and twirling a plastic sword between in his fingers.  
  
The bartender has been steadily ignoring Arthur’s end of the bar for the past 30 minutes in favor of the group of women crowded around the other side, but eventually he passes by Arthur again, long enough to ask, “What are you having?”  
  
“I'll have a vodka martini with a twist,” a voice from behind Arthur responds, a woman suddenly leaning into his space. “And you?” she asks of Arthur, as she settles on to the empty bar stool next to him.  
  
“Whiskey. Neat.” Arthur answers, with a reflexive smile, angling toward her. She's 5'6”, maybe, in barefeet. Mid-30's, if he had to guess. The sensible heels and the YSL dress she has on mark her as a wealthy and professional, if a bit unoriginal. Arthur sits up a little straighter, puts his phone away in his jacket pocket.  
  
She smiles wryly back as the bartender sets them up and moves away again. “I would apologize for interrupting; but it was either that or I was climbing over the bar and grabbing a bottle.”  
  
“Yeah, I know that feeling,” Arthur says.  
  
Her name is Rouya, and she’s in town to present at a medical conference, “On unconscious amygdalar fear conditioning in a subset of chronic fatigue syndrome patients,” she says with a laugh, toying with the empty glass in front of her.

“Sounds interesting,” Arthur hazards, looking at her hands; her slim fingers and pale pink nails. “The parts of the sentence that I understood, at least.”

Arthur knows that Eames hadn’t been wrong when he’d said that Arthur had a type, and Rouya suits it enough that Arthur can picture it, easily. They've been flirting lightly, getting to know each other, but now their glasses are empty. It's come to that point where they'll either go their separate ways or they'll have another drink. Then go up to her room. It'll be her idea, and she'll be the one to lean in first, to kiss him, because she knows what she wants and goes after it. When she strips, she'll be wearing a matched set of white underwear beneath her dress; utilitarian. She doesn't need the frills. 

He can imagine how good it'd be to have sex again in reality. As good as it could be in a dream, the feelings were too ephemeral. You just can't hold on to them, they won't linger into the next day. You wake up from a dream, and there's no strain in your lower back from a position that you held too long, no scratches down your arms that would itch as they healed. Those kinds of feelings that you take with you afterward as souvenirs of time well spent. The kinds of things that would always be missing from his relationship with Eames.

“Can I buy you another drink?” she asks then, a slight blush to her cheeks, looking over at him consideringly.

He could say yes. He knew where it would lead.

Rouya was smart, confident, funny, beautiful. Everything that Arthur usually looked for. If he had been looking. And it would be real. If he wanted real. All he has to do is say, “Yes.”  
  
“I think I've had enough for tonight,” Arthur says instead, pushing back from the bar. He smiles at Rouya, who smiles back, clearly disappointed.

He walks out through the lobby, heading for the street instead of the elevators. It's not quite 8 o'clock. He's thinking about Eames' schedule, how he usually eats dinner and people-watches at his hotel restaurant before he turns in for the night. He's probably just leaving the warehouse now.

Arthur hails a cab.  
  
* * *

It would be a patent falsehood to say that Eames hadn't been expecting something more to occur that night. Hyun Ki was nothing if not determined in the course of the hunt. Earlier in the day, Ellory, working on a model of Peltier's office and shamelessly eavesdropping on Hyun Ki's inelegant pursuit, had offered to track down a copy of "He's Just Not That Into You" to leave on Hyun Ki's desk. Terrible girl. Although if Eames had imagined it would work on his ill-advised suitor he might have let her.

Eames had thought himself prepared for anything; a singing telegram perhaps, or even Hyun Ki himself to be waiting for him in at the restaurant in Eames' hotel, baring flowers, or perhaps himself, but what he was not prepared for apparently, is for Arthur to be the one cozied up to the hotel bar, sipping at what is most likely a ridiculously expensive single malt whiskey, as the maître d' leads Eames through the space to his table.

Surprise lends itself to stillness for a brief moment. One that apparently drags on long enough that Arthur catches a glimpse of him in the mirror located above the bar. "You know I can see you standing there?" Arthur asks over his shoulder, his long suffering voice finally spurring Eames on to wave his escort away and to take the seat next to him. 

"Were you seriously debating about whether or not to come over here?" Arthur asks, for once sounding more amused than annoyed.

Eames bats his eyelashes theatrically. "More so contemplating my good fortune," he says, throwing in a wink for good measure.

Arthur looks as though he's had some sun recently, pink all down the bridge of his nose, appearing by all rights younger than a man his age reasonably should, in his grey checkered shirt and flat front trousers, his hair grown out and starting to wave. Luckily Arthur is too busy downing his drink, his throat bared as he tips his head back, swallowing hard, to notice that Eames is quite obviously staring.

Mouth suddenly dry, Eames orders water in a tumbler from the barkeep, appreciating the fact that while Arthur had looked over at him questioningly, he didn't comment on it. He misses the days you could smoke in bars. It was useful for keeping one's hands occupied. "I do hope the bar won't lose its liquor license for serving someone so obviously underage," Eames muses dryly.

Arthur's nose wrinkles, kittenishly unimpressed by him. "Fuck you, Eames. You're only, what? Three years older than me?"

"With all the wealth of experience I've managed to cram into those years? Can it really be just three?" Eames makes a show of mock amazement, letting his mouth drop open wide, Arthur's eyes tracking the movement with a strange concentration before Eames' meaning sinks in and he frowns.

"Is it possible for us to have a conversation without you being an asshole? Speaking of which, you could have just told me that Evengi got his girlfriend pregnant so that I wouldn’t have had to waste five hours making sure he wasn't being waterboarded in a Russian prison."

"Well, on Evengi's behalf, Arthur, thank you for your concern."

"He is the only member of your team that I can stand," Arthur replies tartly, sounding quite pleased with himself, enough that Eames has to smile in return. Arthur takes a breath then before he says with all seriousness, "You know he's finished."

"We've all seen the peril involved in family men failing to keep their home life separate from their business," Eames shrugs dispassionately. "Though perhaps he'll be back. One day." 

Arthur levels him with a stare. He has a way of getting answers out of Eames, even when Eames doesn't have them for himself, peering at Eames' face, then announcing, "You don't believe that."

Eames chuckles wryly. "No. But nonetheless, that's what I told him."

"You always tell people what they want to hear?"

"When they want me to," Eames says flatly. He uses the pause created by the bartender placing another drink in front of Arthur change the subject. "Allow me to hazard a guess -- you don't like babies."

"My brother has one. It seems nice enough." This is a first. Arthur has never been one to offer up personal information, even when prompted. Particularly not about his family or his past.

Eames sets his elbows on the bar and leans in, making an encouraging noise, prompting Arthur to continue. "And you? Will you be having little Dior-clad children of your own?"

"No," Arthur says, as though the very idea of him with a child is utterly ridiculous. Strange because Eames would have wagered that it was precisely the type of thing that someone like Arthur would want. The wife, the child. Hell, throw in a cocker spaniel and a picket fence and the picture is complete.

"I always thought that I would," Eames muses aloud, swirling the last of his water around the bottom of the glass. "Particularly when I was younger. Though it can only be for the best that I not be responsible for someone else's health and well-being. Can you imagine what a child of mine would be like? The idea is enough to put me off sex altogether." Eames gives a dramatic shudder.

"Last I checked, kids weren't a byproduct of the kind of sex you're having," Arthur says with a little smirk.

Eames shakes his head ruefully. "It's the principle of the matter."

Arthur tilts back on his barstool, contemplative and assessing as he looks over to where Eames sits. "I can't picture you as a kid." 

"I was much the same as I am now, only in miniature. Always more impressed with myself than anyone else could be." Most likely as a repercussion of neglect, a thought he just barely keeps himself from sharing aloud. The confessional air he's cultivated is clearly having a disturbing effect on him. "What about you?"

"I was, I don't know." Arthur sighs, for a moment looking very far away as he struggles to answer the question. "Into baseball. Always chasing after my older brothers, getting into trouble. My dad thought that military school would straighten us out. It worked for them, I guess."

"But not for you."

"Apparently not." Arthur finishes his drink and stands up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his wrist, an oddly unfussy gesture coming from him. "I should head back to my hotel."

Eames allows his confusion to show on his face as he pushes away from the bar. "You're not staying at this hotel?"

"No, I'm at the Le St-James. I just wanted to stop by to let you know I was in town." 

Eames freezes, half-way off of his seat. Eames has no intention of getting attached to Arthur, that would be quite stupid of him, wouldn't it, when Arthur had been quite clear about his lack of interest in Eames himself. Eames has wasted enough of his time on straight men, or god help him, the so-called bicurious, in his adolescence. Altogether too much effort in for too little effort out; he knows better now. And yet, he can't deny that it affects him, that Arthur had taken steps to see him, instead of taking the more effortless route of sending a text or an email.

"Sporting of you," Eames says faintly, regaining command of his faculties enough to respond. He rubs his hands over his knees, Arthur's gaze following the movement, before it snaps back up to Eames' face. And it occurs to Eames that perhaps with Arthur it wouldn't take much effort at all, at that.

Arthur hesitates, his teeth worrying his bottom lip slightly, before he says again, "Look. I should go." As though he isn't quite sure that is what he should do.

It's a good guess that Eames might be able to entice Arthur to stay. He seems rather amenable to persuasion, his posture stiff and guarded, but his eyes considering. Eames could take him upstairs, forge some beautiful woman or another for him to fuck. But, Eames acknowledges, he can't imagine being someone else with Arthur, not tonight. Eames is, as he's somewhat surprised to realize, too exposed himself, there's too much risk of bleed-through. It would only confuse things for him, leave him wanting things that he can't have. Not in reality.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Arthur," Eames says cheerfully to Arthur's back as he turns away to exit the bar. Still, it's with a little regret that Eames watches him go.

* * *

Eames' team rents out office space in downtown Montreal for the Peltier job. 

It works out that Arthur is there in person, even if he had finished most of his original duties that Eames had set aside for him in his first couple of days in the city. Eames' team is young and enthusiastic but they know fuck-all about focus. Among other important traits for an extraction team; like competence and professionalism. Ellory's models lay half-finished on her work table because she ran out of glue. Arthur writes a note to himself to speak to her tomorrow about buying in bulk.

It's not that Arthur minds the job he's been relegated to. It's basically made up of two parts micromanaging to one part teaching and one part bitching them out about productivity. But those are all tasks that fortunately leave plenty of time for Arthur to spend on other things. The Hadid job for one; Arthur idly tracing his movements each day, just to keep on top of it. 

And then there's Eames.

He's spent a lot of time lately on Eames. Or inside of Eames, surrounded by Eames. The last time  
they'd fucked Arthur had taken a shapely female version of Eames against a plate glass window, Arthur coming so hard that he hadn't been able to walk for a full 10 minutes after they'd woken up. It's been the best sex of Arthur's life. Which is mostly something he tries not to think too hard about, considering that no sex has actually occurred outside of Arthur's mind. 

Even this late in the day, the office probably isn't the best place to be thinking about all the amazing sex he's been having, Arthur reminds himself remorsefully, trying not to blatantly squirm in his seat as his cock swells a little at the memory.

At least Eames wasn't paying attention to him. Not with Hyun Ki in the room, dancing attendance on Eames as if it was his job, in place of doing his actual work, modifying the Somnicin blend so that it can be taken calcium channel blockers without putting the mark in coma. Eames has been doing disinterest in Hyun Ki like it's performance art in response; the exaggerated yawns, the lack of eye contact. Though if Hyun Ki has noticed, he hasn't let it stop him from trying to get into Eames' good graces. 

This is probably around the seventy-first time Eames has had to shoo Hyun Ki back to his own area over the course of the day, Hyun Ki's mouth set in determination as he stalks back to his side of the room. "Problem?" Arthur asks him sardonically, leaning back in his chair. 

"Instead of reading these files you've so helpfully complied, I've spent most of the evening trying to chase away my hapless suitor. I've insulted his methodology, his deportment, and in all likelihood, his parentage. He's inexhaustible." Eames seems more impressed than irritated, but in Arthur's experience, it's the kind of situation that always escalates, and Arthur prefers to be proactive.

"I'll talk to him."

"Going to defend my honor, are we?" Eames asks in a low voice, for Arthur's ears only. He's half-smiling as he leans back in his chair, an arm draped casually over the back of it, his shirt pulled tight across his chest, the material thin enough that the shapes of his tattoos are clearly visible through it. No small wonder that Hyun Ki can't focus on his blends. Eames has obviously been working out. The results are... distracting.

"I'm not challenging him to a duel, Eames. Pistols at dawn might be a little over the top," Arthur murmurs back, a little flustered by his own train of thought. 

Eames grins. "Hyun Ki!" Eames calls out, the man snapping to attention at the sound of Eames' voice.

"Did you need something from me, Eames?" he asks eagerly, and he's half-way across the room toward them before Eames can shake his head 'no''.

Arthur can't help but roll his eyes. "We're done for the night," Arthur states flatly, giving Hyun Ki a repressive look. He begins packing up his desk, Eames catching on quickly behind him. He springs into action, shoving files into his satchel and shrugging on his jacket. 

"Shall we share a cab?" Hyun Ki asks, looking past Arthur, trying to catch Eames' gaze. 

"And you're staying here, and finishing the blend that was supposed to be done three hours ago," Arthur says, a sharp edge to his voice, ignoring both Hyun Ki's crestfallen expression and Eames' sudden coughing fit as Arthur stands and heads for the door. "Split a cab?" he asks pointedly when Eames catches up with him, Eames letting out a little snort of amusement. Arthur holds the door open for him, catching a whiff of his scent as Eames brushes past him, something mossy and clean that lingers all the way out to the street where he waves down a cab.

They've barely settled into the back seat of the taxi, Eames slouching low against his side's door, his legs spread wide, as the driver pulls away from the curb, when Eames turns to him.

"I have spoken to him about the import of professionalism more than once. And when that failed to hit the mark, I might have told Hyun Ki some sob story or another about needing time to heal still after my most recent break-up," Eames shakes his head sadly. "A sad miscalculation on my part. He seemed to see it as more challenge than deterrent."

"You never said why you and..." 

"Omid," Eames supplies, with an easy smirk.

Arthur nods. "Why you broke-up in the first place."

"No, I didn't." Eames hums out a thoughtful note, and the reflected light from passing street lamps make his eyes glitter in the dark. "I expect that the reality of living with me doesn't quite match up with the fantasy of it." He shrugs dismissively, asking, "Have you ever considered the reasons why none of your previous relationships have lasted?" 

Arthur straightens his cuffs, suddenly needing something to do with his hands. "Everyone does."

Eames tilts his head, acknowledging the point. "And what conclusions have you reached?"

Arthur isn't quite sure what the right answer is to a question like that. Eames can give away all these secret parts of himself like it's just easy and he apparently expects Arthur to respond in kind. Is he supposed to tell Eames all about how his parents got divorced when he was six, that he'd hadn't lost his virginity until after he'd been in the Army for three months, or about how he's always prioritized his career over his relationships? He's heard enough about that one over the years, from more than one ex-girlfriend. But Arthur doesn't know how to say those things, isn't as brave as Eames in that way, to share all of that with someone and still look them in the eye afterwards. So Eames is going to have to settle for the short version. 

"Apparently I'm selfish and uncompromising." 

Eames pulls a shocked face at that. "Who would have guessed?" He pauses, tilting his head inquisitively. "But do you enjoy being single?" 

"You're seriously asking me about my sex life?" Arthur asks with a little laugh, shifting a little so that their legs aren't pressed quite so close together, only bumping into each other slightly with their knees. 

"I know firsthand how you've been enjoying that part. What about the rest?"

"The rest ---" Arthur huffs out a breath. "It's not bad for awhile. Eventually I start to miss being with someone. Having someone who knows me, and still wants to be with me anyway. Or that's the idea, I guess. But I'm not looking for that. Right now. What about you?" It's strange, because as much as he wants to turn the tables on Eames, he finds himself honestly curious to hear his answer.

Eames chuckles. "I have a long, sordid history of temporarily semi-committed relationships. A break from it every now and then is in order."

"I don't think Hyun Ki is looking for commitment, temporarily semi- or otherwise," Arthur mutters, knowing full well that he doesn't have any right to feel jealous or possessive of Eames and even in the dark, hoping that he manages to keep it out of his voice and his eyes.

"The problem with that idea is that no matter how delectable and flexible Hyun Ki might be," and Eames actually winks when Arthur grimaces at him, "you know as well as I do that casual sex with your colleagues only muddies the waters."

Arthur highly doubts that. Eames has clearly never had a problem compartmentalizing the personal from the professional. He can't help but wonder aloud, "Then what would you call what we've been doing?" 

"A fantasy," Eames answers, chasing the blunt statement with a soft smile.

"I'm flattered." He's not really. Only Eames could insult him with a compliment.

Eames sighs, shaking his head at Arthur. "We aren't friends, Arthur," Eames reminds him patiently. "You'd be the first to tell me that."

"Maybe not, but we're something. We're... intimate," Arthur finishes hesitantly, shifting in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

He probably deserves that slightly mocking laugh from Eames. Still, that doesn't take any of the sting out of it.  
"You realize I don't even know your last name," Eames points out.

"It's Rothschild," Arthur says flatly. "If we're not friends, then what was the point of all this? Why even start this?"  
  
It could be possible that Eames has some kind of angle that Arthur isn't seeing, maybe. There were times when Arthur would have believed it. Eames has always been casual about sex and mercenary about money. With all the fodder Eames has picked up on Arthur in recent weeks, and taking every job they've worked together in the past into consideration, Arthur could have at least reasonably expected some pointed mockery. But Eames has somehow resisted his urge to tease, to pick apart Arthur's control with his barbs. He's still an asshole most of the time, pointing out every flaw in Arthur's plans with obvious glee. And he's still a flirt. But then, flirting is how Eames communicates with the world at large; Arthur included. Eames has basically treated him the same as he did before he first propositioned Arthur back in Cambrais.

So no, Arthur doesn’t buy this as a con. It doesn’t make sense with what he knows to have been a genuine and open Eames. In fact, Eames has done everything he can to level the playing field. Make it so Arthur isn't the only one painfully exposed by what the two of them are doing. It has been-- kind, of him.  
  
"The money and the orgasms aren't reasons enough?" Eames asks, another deflection, turning a dazzling smile on him.  
  
Arthur shakes his head. "Not for you."

Eames stares at him for a long moment as the cab pulls up to the curb alongside Eames' hotel. "I suppose I like the challenge. Figuring out what you'd like. Who you'd like." 

Eames digs out his wallet, handing the driver a couple of folded bills over the back of the man's seat. He pops his door open, lingering a bit, his gaze on Arthur. "Come up with me, why don't you?" Muddying the waters again.

The strange thing is, right now, Arthur can't think of a single reason not to. 

"Yeah. It's just going to be the one stop," Arthur says to the driver, meeting Eames' eyes, following him out of the cab.

He trails Eames up to and into his hotel room, taking the opportunity to just watch Eames. It's interesting, man or woman, Eames holds himself the same way; imposing, confident - maybe a little arrogant. But there's something else there, now that Arthur's looking, in the way Eames's shoulders hunch when he catches Arthur's gaze on him that suggests some sort of vulnerability before Eames covers it up with a conspiratory grin. Eames ushers him over to an armchair, a guiding hand low on the small of Arthur's back. Unthinkingly, Arthur leans into the touch, watching as the look on Eames' face goes dark and intrigued in response. 

In the dream Eames creates, Arthur fucks someone that reminds him vaguely of Laetitia Casta on a carpeted floor, who licks his balls sloppy wet as Arthur hovers on his hands and knees in front of her, Eames pausing only to mouth all manner of complimentary things about his body and the way he moves against the small of his back before getting back down to it.

Arthur wraps a hand around his dick and even in a dream it's surprising that he's still hard, that he hasn't come yet, he thinks as he twists his wrist slightly, works himself a little harder.

Eames sits back on her heels between Arthur's spread legs, running a proprietary hand over the curve of Arthur's ass. Then comes an unexpectedly searching touch between his cheeks.

Arthur startles, jerking away from her fingers, which were definitely, unquestionably wet. "What the fuck, Eames?" 

"It will feel amazing, Arthur, I can promise you that," Eames tells him as Arthur looks back over his shoulder at her, a stacked blonde who apparently wants permission to put her fingers up Arthur's ass. Arthur almost laughs at the farce of it all.

Arthur blows out a hard breath, then nods. "It's fine, you just surprised me."

Eames blinks slowly. She looks kind of surprised herself. "If you're certain." 

Arthur nods again, his face heating up. He can feel the flush crawling down his neck and chest. "Breathe out," Eames instructs, and then comes the touch of her fingers again, wet and insistent and now inexorably sinking into him.

Eames, of course, knows what she's doing, the drag of her fingers pumping in and out of him, rubbing over his prostate, causing sparks up Arthur's spine, a system overload that has Arthur's arms shaking, already barely capable of holding up his own weight. He sinks down on his elbows, playing it safe, and lets his head hang down. Now at least he has a fighting chance of keeping himself from completely collapsing under Eames' assault.

Eames is not being ungentle, not exactly, but she doesn't go easy on Arthur either. She spears into him confidently, her fingers flexing and spreading apart, opening Arthur up. His earlier shock had somewhat dampened the urgency of his need to come, but his cock is back in the game now, bobbing eagerly between his legs as Eames rocks him back and forth on her hand.

And Arthur knows that the wild, unfiltered sounds that are pouring out of him are way too loud, he just can't seem to control them at this exact moment. Not when Eames' fingers are curling up and it's making Arthur's back bow and yes, he has to cry out as Eames ruthlessly massages around his prostate. The feeling is more overwhelming than amazing, no matter what Eames had promised him. Arthur is too tender and Eames is putting on too much pressure, but Arthur doesn't want Eames to stop. Not even when Arthur comes, quivering and grunting, semen shooting out over his chest and the floor, making an unholy mess, and Eames keeps going, milking his orgasm out of him until Arthur does eventually collapse in a heap on the floor despite himself.

"Sodding hell, Arthur," Eames says, sounding as winded and dazed as if she had just come herself.

The timer runs out then, Arthur still wheezing slightly from exertion as he gingerly sits up in his arm chair in the middle of Eames' plush hotel room. Eames is peering over at him from the loveseat he's draped across, eventually clearing his throat and saying, "I could apologize. If you're feeling-- distressed."

Distressed is the last thing Arthur feels at this particular time.

"That wasn't the first time I've been fucked in the ass, Eames," he says easily, and it's probably beneath him to get as much enjoyment as he does out of Eames' reaction. How completely fucking poleaxed he looks before he recovers his aplomb.

"Just when I think I have you figured out." Arthur, listening for any hint of reproach, finds none. In fact, Eames seems kind of pleased that Arthur somehow managed to surprise him. A real smile breaks over Eames' face then. "I'm going to have so much fun with you."


	3. Chapter 3

"So when you said you've been fucked in the arse before?" Eames slips the question into the conversation nonchalantly, counting himself lucky that Arthur had already swallowed that mouthful of Tom Yum before he did so or most likely he would have been wearing it. He should also be thankful that the rapid-fire French being spoken around them in the downtown restaurant doesn't slow for an instant at his words, given the way Arthur's eyes dart from table to table before he returns his attention back to Eames.

"Is there some other way of interpreting those words that I'm not aware of?" Arthur says through his teeth, his voice low enough that Eames has to lean in. There's a flush crawling up his neck from under the collar of his shirt.

Eames resolutely pushes away the last of his Phat Thai, all the better to concentrate on Arthur. "I had been under the impression that you were mainly heterosexual."

"Mainly being the operative word?" Arthur goes back to his soup with something approaching good humor, his lips pursed distractingly around his spoon.

"Quite so," Eames agrees. As experiments in sexuality go, the results had been conclusive. He wonders aloud, "A girlfriend with wandering fingers?"

"Just you," Arthur shoots back, heaving an exasperated sigh. "Look, I was in the Army, Eames. There was a guy, I let him fuck me."

Eames accepts that, absolutely not picturing an 18 year old Arthur with a shaved head and the same bristling impatience, camouflage trousers pulled down around his knees. "Was it good?"

"Not really, no. But it didn't put me off the idea, if that's what you want to know," Arthur says, short and sharp, his eyes warning Eames off the topic. Fair enough, Eames has boundaries of his own that don't like crossing.

"Do you finger your own arse when you wank?" Eames asks abruptly. His timing isn't as fortunate this time; Arthur sputtering out his last sip of soup, though thankfully most of it ends up back in his bowl. 

"Fuck you, Eames," Arthur says as he wipes his mouth. "What kind of question is that?"

"An honest one. What's the answer?"

Arthur frowns, brow furrowing. "Sometimes. Not often."

Eames takes in the mulishly set expression on Arthur's face and decides it's in his best interests not to press him further. "How about him?" he asks, pointing out a man two tables down from them. Fair and slim, with messy dark hair and glasses. He has a look about him of someone young and eager. Someone who Eames could imagine Arthur with, imagine Arthur wanting, and nothing at all like Eames himself.

Tempting as the idea of seducing Arthur is, Eames isn't in the business of lying to himself. He might be attracted to Arthur-- he's too much Eames' type for him not to be. And he could see himself making a play for him, potentially, now that Arthur's... flexibility when it comes to gender has come to light. But however much he wants to fuck Arthur in the real world, and he does, very much so -- this isn't about what Eames wants, not really. The arrangement that they have together now is good, if somewhat one-sided. But despite the lack of focus on his own needs, Eames can't call himself unsatisfied, not in any sense of the word. He finds himself not wanting to risk losing this, losing Arthur, by overreaching. So let it go, Eames tells himself sternly. 

Arthur raises an eyebrow, eying the man Eames pointed out for him dispassionately. For all the world he might be admiring the cut of the stranger's jacket instead of contemplating if he'd like to fuck a kind of doppelganger of the man. 

"Yeah, he'd work," Arthur says, nonchalant as anything. A shame that Eames is now hardwired to find these displays of mercenary selfishness a turn-on, a fact that Arthur is shamelessly taking advantage of if the sadistic 20 minutes it takes him to finish his soup, while Eames fights not to fidget anxiously in his seat, is anything to go by. The drive back to the hotel also seems interminably long, Eames humming tunelessly to pass the time until Arthur tells him that he has things to do back at the office if Eames isn't going to shut up. Even the hotel elevator seems to be conspiring against him as well, pausing for an unreasonable amount of time at every floor between his and the lobby.

Finally he gets Arthur back to his rooms and the PASIV attached to them both, setting the clock for a 30 minute window in the dream.

The room Eames builds is reminiscent of a job they pulled together in Platz, about five years back. Arthur clearly recognizes the shag carpeting and the floor to ceiling mirrors, wincing a bit before he allows a rueful laugh.

"We shouldn't stay long,” Eames says, and it's as simple as stretching now to slide into someone else's skin. And when he turns away from the mirror to face Arthur, he's a new man. Though he's left his eyes their natural color, for pizzazz. If Arthur notices, he doesn't say a word. “We are still on the clock after all.”

“Why is it always burning up or freezing cold in your dreams? Do you have some sort of core temperature regulation issue that I should know about?” Arthur asks absently. The air in the room does feel a bit damp and clingy, and Arthur's already sweated through his shirt, which even in a dream must drive him to distraction. But he goes down easily, laughing and willing, when Eames tackles him to the bed.

Fucking Arthur as a man isn't actually that much different from fucking Arthur as a woman, if Eames were going to compare and contrast. It's more forceful like this maybe. Eames hauling Arthur into place with sheer brute strength, his hands tight and hard on Arthur's skin as he holds him down, because he knows Arthur can take it. 

“A little focus, if you please, Arthur,” Eames reminds him, heaving a dramatic, long suffering sigh, as he attacks the button and zip on Arthur's trousers, yanking them down to mid-thigh. 

Arthur gives in to another laugh, as Eames tugs him close enough that he can get at his mouth, figuring this isn't going to take very long. The way Arthur's already frantically rubbing his hard cock along Eames' hip might have been a clue. Eames' trousers are already conveniently undone, and since finesse is seemingly a luxury they can't afford, he's not bothered that Arthur doesn't waste time with niceties. He spits in his hand and reaches down to jack Eames off, Eames groaning happily against Arthur's mouth as Arthur sets a brutal pace. A handjob is likely all they have time for, but Eames certainly isn't going to complain about getting off to Arthur's lovely large hand wrapped around his cock, if that's all he can have.

“Arthur,” he moans out after a minute, and he tucks his face into the side of Arthur's neck, bucking into his touch as Arthur's hand squeezes tight around him. Arthur makes a warm, acknowledging noise, slips his free arm under Eames' waist, holding onto him as Eames comes, semen pulsing out high and hard between them. 

Not that Arthur is far behind, busy shoving his cock against Eames' leg, his thrusts becoming ragged as he suddenly orgasms, streaking over Eames' skin, his come sticky and warm as it slides down his thigh. Eames breathes heavily for a moment, beaming down at Arthur, holding on tight to him as he flops down against him, shamelessly cuddling. 

“No, seriously,” Arthur says after a moment, weakly wiping at the sweat running down the side of his face, “Why is it so fucking hot in here?” 

Eames laughs, enjoying this more than he would have imagined, nuzzling in close, kissing away the sweat from the hollow of Arthur's neck. Arthur letting him, Arthur squeezing him tight in return. He can be sweet like this, Arthur can. 

“Fuck,” Eames whispers, fond and warm in Arthur's ear, and then, “Arthur--” and he isn't quite sure how he means to finish that sentence. Luckily, he doesn't have to because that's when the clock runs out.

* * *

Intellectually Arthur has nothing against prostitution. It's the world's oldest profession for a reason. He's going to have to make some excuses about the recent jump in his spending habits to his accountant, but other than that, it's as good of a relationship as Arthur has ever had. 

There's no one else Arthur needs to justify his penchant toward the criminal or the immoral to. He enjoys his work and his life and that's reason enough for him to continue on. He's not sure how, or if, Eames justifies this thing that they're doing to himself, but it's so easy to keep going. And so weeks pass by, and they don't stop. 

"I want to suck your cock," Eames says.

They'd had a late dinner of takeout from a little Russian place down by the square, Eames making him laugh over his pelmeni with a story about his fence and some counterfeit Israeli passports he'd tried to pawn off on Eames, if only they hadn't been the wrong color and size. Eames had dug out his PASIV after, his eyes still light with laughter. 

In the dream he becomes a handsome young man that Eames claims he met while doing surveillance on a job they worked together seven years ago in Morocco; dark eyed, small and lithe. The shirt he's wearing is threadbare to the point where Arthur can see the dark circles of his nipples through it when he turns away from the mirror and gets down on his knees. 

He licks a line down the plains of Arthur's abs, sucking lightly, marking up the skin under Arthur's bellybutton as Arthur laughingly tries to squirm away. 

"Ahh! That fucking tickles, Eames," he says. He twists slightly, and as he does he catches a glimpse of the two of them together, in the mirror.

It's not like Arthur ever forgot who he's with, who he's fucking, and rationally speaking, it doesn't matter much if it's a man or a woman. He knows they're all Eames, no matter what they look like to him in the dream. But sometimes the fantasy is easier to buy into than others. It's fucking impossible when they're standing in front of a mirror.

He looks down and he sees a beautiful stranger's hand wrapped around his cock. But out of the corner of his eye, all he can see is the room's mirror, and Eames' real reflection in it. Eames on his knees in front of Arthur, smirking up at him. That sinful mouth of his pursed around the tip of Arthur's dick, Arthur's long fingers clenching into the meat of his broad shoulders. He's been confronted with reality, and now Arthur can't bring himself to look away. 

Arthur's hips jerk instinctively as Eames' lips part, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip; Eames chuckling warmly at the break in his control, his eyes slipping closed and his hands urging Arthur forward again. He rubs his cheek against Arthur's balls, testing the heavy weight of them with his tongue as Arthur's fingers dig in and scratch at Eames' back. He spends forever there, nuzzling at Arthur's spread thighs, making all of these eager little noises, until Arthur doesn't know how much more he can take and he's telling him, "You don't have to put on a master class in cock sucking, Eames. I have had this done before."

“But not by me,” Eames says with dark eyes, before he finally, finally, deigns to take Arthur in his mouth, suckling lazily at the head of Arthur's cock, tonguing his circumcision scar. Arthur is reduced to whimpers and he loves it; he's never been so hard in his life. Eames keeps teasing him for what feels like hours, still showing off. Eames clearly gets off on driving Arthur crazy, he keeps sighing happily around Arthur's cock, his reflection reaching down to rearrange his own erection where it strains against his zipper. 

Discretion is long gone, Arthur is unrepentantly staring at their reflection in the mirror. He's entranced by the way Eames' lips, his real lips, look stretched around Arthur's cock. Lips glossy, plump, and pink; the open shape of his mouth, outlined around Arthur's flesh is --

Arthur lets out a strangled noise as he comes, his cock bumping messily against the roof of Eames' mouth as he thrusts inside one last time. 

"Oh fuck," Arthur murmurs, as the shockwaves run through him. He looks down at where a stranger is beaming at him from his spot on the floor instead of Eames. Arthur can still see him though, the real him, come at the corners of his lips, looking proud and disheveled in the mirror.

"Oh fuck," Arthur repeats.

* * *

"So," Ellory begins, sidled up to Eames' desk, twirling a pencil between her fingers, furtively looking around the office to make sure Arthur is well out of earshot before she continues. "When did you and Arthur start dating?"

Eames rocks back in his seat, more startled than he cares to examine. "Whatever could you mean?"

"Please. 'Oh, Arthur doesn't go under before breakfast.' 'Eames takes his tea with milk.' 'Arthur prefers the Colt,'" Ellory recites mockingly, not bothering to conceal her scorn. Eames quickly swallows the urge to tell her that Arthur will use a Glock more often than not as he prefers the grip; he has enough sense of self-preservation to know that would only add fuel to the fire.

"I think you'll find that you've confused 'knowing mundane facts about' with 'dating'. Which we're not," Eames says, his expression bland. The words come out easy; he's used to reminding himself of it now, a champion at ignoring the ache that goes with the reminder. 

Ellory makes a disgusted noise. "What about all those over-long lunch breaks you take together? You were both gone for three hours Monday."

"Have you tried the sandwich place on Saint Catherine yet? Gorgeous BLTs, worth lingering over," Eames answers breezily.

"Are we set up for the run-through?" Arthur asks, appearing at Eames' side, timely and frightening as ever, an arch of an eyebrow sending Ellory scurrying away to set up the PASIV, shooting them both sullen looks over her shoulder as she goes.

Eames sets the surveillance photos he had been nominally reviewing back on his desk, beaming up at Arthur. "Ready when you are, darling. Aren't I always?" he says with a wink.

"How many minutes do you want?" Ellory interrupts loudly, Arthur giving Eames a quelling look before he turns to her to respond.

"Ten should do it."

They settle into their reclining lawn chairs, a staple on every job Eames works with Arthur. Eames spares a thought for what Arthur's flat must look like given his penchant for cheap and portable furnishings. "Sweet dreams," Ellory mutters, hitting the dispenser button with more force than actually necessary --

They wake up in a cityscape, Arthur's influence on Ellory's architecture clear as Eames takes it in. At street level, every building is stark, sleek, untouchable in its beauty. They loom over the pedestrians, close-packed together, creating a claustrophobic sense of being penned in. The hope being that the mark will scamper away to what they perceive as the safest place in the dream, the place all his secrets are stored without, ideally, being so frightened that he keels over from cardiac arrest.

"Well then? What do you think? Will it do?" Eames asks Arthur, burrowing into the scarf he has wrapped round his neck. They must have left the air conditioning on high up top, there's a brisk wind coming from the West as they maneuver down the pavement weaving between Eames' projections. 

"It looks fine. You know as well as I do with a one level extraction the buildings could be made out of Swiss cheese and the projections would barely notice anything out of the ordinary was happening."

"Not Swiss cheese surely," Eames muses, frowning seriously as he considers the high rise in front of them. "The buildings would never be able to maintain structural integrity with all of those holes. A nice gouda perhaps."

Arthur dimples charmingly, walking backward to a bus stop on the street corner, as the number 37 pulls up to the kerb, its doors sliding open. "Should we test the illusion at the borders of the dream?"

"Lead on," Eames says, waving a hand. He feels loose and warm, settled into his skin. Much more likely to hand over all his secrets on a silver platter with not a heart palpitation in offing as he mounts the steps into the bus's interior. "We'll have to compliment Hyun Ki on this mixture. I feel as though I've had a hit off a spliff whilst also high on muscle relaxers. Not that I would have any idea what that felt like."

"Of course not," Arthur says amusedly, swiping his fare card twice. The driver is a projection of one of Eames' neighbors. Lovely old woman, bakes bread every Sunday. Eames wiggles his fingers at her in greeting as he follows Arthur to a seat. "I'll tell him. Coming from you it would just be further encouragement to try to get into your pants."

"That implies that I encouraged him in the first place," Eames says, listing into Arthur's side as the bus lurches forward, not bothering to try to straighten up as the gentle sway of the bus keeps him in place. Arthur will have to forgive him, it does seem rather pointless to pull away only to be jostled back again. "Hyun Ki will give up eventually. Once he realizes that I can't give someone what they truly want. Only a facsimile of it," Eames muses. A bit glib perhaps, but his point stands.

"That's bullshit. If anyone's the whole package it's you, Eames." Arthur says with a shake of his head, quiet enough that for a wild moment Eames isn't sure he was meant to overhear. Arthur has seemed distant lately, tense and thoughtful, even during their sessions with the PASIV. But now he offers Eames a shy smile as Eames gapes at him, momentarily stunned into silence. 

"That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me. And I'm including that time you said that I wasn't the worst person you've ever worked with," Eames manages to say.

"Shut up," Arthur says, huffing out an annoyed breath. "I like that scarf," he adds awkwardly, eying up Eames' subconscious attire, a nod to the dream's crisp autumnal weather.

"It would look better on you, with your skin tone," Eames returns the compliment, though it's hardly fair, as Arthur would look handsome in anything. 

Eames would have thought of that exchange as a bit of harmlessly flirtation but somehow in the course of their journey his hand has come to rest high up on Arthur's thigh, his index finger lazily tracing the line of Arthur's inseam; Arthur letting him. 

"Yeah, it would," Arthur says and he's grinning. "Where are you headed after the job's done?" he asks as the bus rolls into their stop, and they ease away from each other, standing, then making their way to the front of the bus.

"I thought I would hole up somewhere until I finish with your project," Eames answers slowly, deftly dismounting the bus' steps before turning back to look at Arthur. Perhaps this mixture addles the brain more than anticipated, because it almost sounds to him as if Arthur is leading somewhere with that question. "Did you have some suggestion?" he asks confusedly.

A bell jangles behind Eames, Arthur deftly moving him out of a bicyclist's path before Eames can react, his hand finding Eames' hip to guide his movement with the ease of long familiarity. Arthur lets his hand drop as soon as the man passes, and then as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, he asks, "How do you feel about Muscat?"

* * *

Eames comes to Muscat.

He's ostensibly there to work, but that excuse seems to hold less weight once he actually arrives because they both know he's here to be with Arthur. Because Arthur asked him to be.

Especially once weeks have gone by, and Arthur has an impressive collection of forged artwork to take to Hadid and Eames is still there. Eames could move on at any time. Back to Mombasa or London. Arthur knows that Pfinster offered Eames that corporate sabotage job in Bangalore. But neither one of them says anything about Eames leaving and nothing really changes.

He meets up with Eames at his hotel and has sex with a forgery of Eames' childhood piano teacher. The light from the bay windows makes her pale skin glow as Arthur goes down on her. And it's good, like it's always good when he's with Eames, but ... 

"Mmm, Arthur," Eames purrs as she tries to interest him in round two, her hand rubbing at Arthur's cock. He gets hard, of course. That isn't the problem. Something about it just doesn't feel right though; even if everything is nominally perfect, it just isn't what he wants. Arthur hasn't had what he's wanted since that one time, in Montreal. He knows exactly what the problem is; it's that he can't see any of the room's mirrors from here.

Arthur gives up. "This isn't working," he says as he rolls off of Eames with a grunt. 

"Everything seems in working order from down here, darling," Eames says with a throaty little laugh, reaching for him again. Arthur shrugs off her touch, catching her hands in his, peering down at her face. And it's the wrong face.

It's not like it's a surprise that he would be attracted to Eames. Eames is a handsome guy. They might not have fallen under anyone's definition of friends in the past but for as long as they've known each other, it's always been easy to like Eames on a personal level, to enjoy his company. For all that their methodologies diverge while working, and how easily they can manage to unravel each other's already frayed edges when in close contact, Eames is extremely likable. He's smart, competent, gets his work done quickly, and for the most part, quietly. He can be incredibly insightful, as good with the practicalities as he is with the fantastical side of dreaming. He might not know everything, but he knows what he needs to know. That goes a long way with Arthur. 

And now that they've been spending so much time together recently, especially once sex got involved, it's been easy for things to get confused. Arthur hadn't realized the extent to which he had come to want Eames. Not just a body that Eames forged for him. Eames, himself. 

"Eames. Maybe we could do something else," Arthur suggests crisply, dropping her hands, folding his arms over his chest. His face feels hot, his words awkward. They're both still naked, so he aims his gaze deliberately above Eames' shoulder. 

Eames frowns a little at the suggestion, nodding anyway. "Anything you like, Arthur, you know that."

Eames can be very accommodating. Always. And it's starting to bother Arthur; that he's just one more in a potentially long line of people who took advantage of that. Not to read too much into Eames' chosen profession because it isn't his job or his place to psychoanalyze Eames, to put him under a microscope and look at his working parts, but it's been fairly obvious that somewhere along the way Eames came to believe that just being himself wasn't enough. Because of how readily Eames sells himself to the highest bidder, how willing he is to oblige someone who wants to change Eames into something more, better, different. 

Arthur is just now coming to realize that he could want Eames, just as he is. If Eames wanted him to.

He probably owes Eames an apology. Maybe an explanation if he can come up with something that doesn't make him sound like an idiot. Arthur climbs to his feet with a sigh and asks haltingly,

"Look, do you want to get out of here? Go grab something for dinner?"

Eames looks surprised for a second, before she stands too, offering Arthur a soft smile and a gun that she dreamed up to wake them with. "Of course."

* * *

The lift comes and goes, and Eames doesn't get on it. He's meant to, Arthur is waiting for him in his hotel suite at this very moment. And yet Eames can't seem to bring himself to get on the bloody lift.

It's not that he doesn't want to see Arthur, precisely. Really it's that he both does and doesn't want to, because of all things, Eames finds that at this exact moment he doesn't know what to say to him. Something has changed between them recently. It's nothing Eames can put his finger on as yet. They still spend their free time together as often as not, sharing a meal or a conversation. Arthur doesn't seem to have any complaints about Eames' company. Wasn't it just the other day that Arthur smiled when Eames came into the room?

But the fucking, which had once been the hallmark of their personal relationship, that has been happening less and less. Arthur was bound to get tired of it sooner or later, Eames supposes, once the bloom was off the rose, so to speak. But surely he would have let him know if he had any complaints, would have sent Eames packing if their arrangement was no longer working for him? If he wanted something else, someone else? Of course he could simply ask him, when he sees him, Eames thinks balefully. And then, Fuck it.

He calls him instead.

"Eames. What's going on?" Arthur asks after he picks up the line. Charmingly brusque as always.

Eames changes his mind in that instant. Why rock the boat? Why ask questions that he doesn't want the answer to, and other idioms of that nature. If he could have come up with a reasonable reason as to why he's ringing Arthur when he's meant to be on his way up to Arthur's hotel room just now, he might have used it. His mind remains stubbornly blank until he simply ends up blurting out, "It's been enjoyable, hasn't it? These last few weeks together?," wincing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

"Fishing for compliments?" Arthur asks, huffing a laugh at the very idea.

Eames laughs weakly in return. "Not precisely. But you would say that you're happy, with our arrangement? Or satisfied, rather. If you weren't..." It's horrific, that's what this is. He would call it a trainwreck but frankly he's had enough of trains to last him one lifetime. He manages with some difficulty to stem the unwanted stream of words coming from his mouth. "But you are intending that things between us will remain the same, at least for the time being?" Because, therein lies the rub. 

Arthur clears his throat, and when he responds it's with the air of a man choosing his words very carefully. "Things can't always stay the same, Eames." 

Eames freezes, his hand squeezed tight around his mobile. Doesn't that just have the makings of a break-up conversation in process all over it? Arthur's way of subtly letting him down easy. Although it's pointless to feel disappointed, Eames reminds himself. Arthur had been quite specific, from the beginning, that he wasn't interested in making this more than what it was. A business transaction for them both.

"No, of course not," Eames answers, shaking his head despite the fact that Arthur can't see him, resuming his path across the lobby, the other hotel patrons giving him a wide berth, making him wonder vaguely what his face must look like. "I will, however, always enjoy spending time with you. Whether I'm paid to or not." Eames frowns at that, thinking back. Now that he's said it, he remembers that he hasn't actually spent any of the money that Arthur has paid him. Actually, to be honest, he can't be sure Arthur _has_ paid him for the all the time that they've spent together. It's odd, that is, that both of them would completely ignore what had brought them together in the first place.

"Eames." Arthur huffs impatiently. "Just come up."

"I'll be there shortly." His voice sounds remarkably steady, calm even, as he rings off, if he might say so himself. No hint of any unsightly emotional distress. There's no sense in dramatics, is there? Eames is an adult, he can handle rejection, even coming from Arthur. Not that he was expecting much else. 

It's been a fantasy all along. Nothing more.

* * *

Arthur had thought he'd learnt over the years all there is to know about Eames. His criminal and academic records (refreshingly mundane and unsurprisingly impressive) to his favorite handguns and the way he takes his tea (German made semi-automatics and with a splash of milk).

But he was wrong, because he's just lately been learning the soft creases at the corners of Eames' eyes, how he laughs when he's half-asleep and happy; raspy and slow, the thin skin of his wrist as Arthur inserts his cannula, the caked red clay under his fingernails. He's just now figuring out what Eames would like. Who he would like. 

"I'm thinking of a little Brazilian number that I forged some years ago," Eames says, all determined cheer from the moment Arthur opened the door for him, purposefully striding through Arthur's hotel room as he sets the PASIV open on the night stand next to the bed.

Arthur smiles. "That sounds fine," he says, fond and easy, and when Eames grins back at him, pushing up the sleeve of Arthur's shirt to swab down the crook of his elbow, Arthur leans in, not thinking. Or of course, thinking, because it seems like a good idea at the time. To kiss Eames. It feels right. Until Eames jerks back like Arthur slapped him, dropping the alcohol swab and scrambling to put space between them.

"What are you doing?" Eames asks, his eyes wide, his voice gone high and wary. 

He's gone to stand beside the bed in a defensive position, everything about his posture is closed-off and unwelcoming. Arthur tenses in response, ready to write it off as a bad job. Except that, this might be his one shot at it. If Arthur stops now, laughs it off, if he deflects, he can't be sure that he would ever have an opportunity like this again. These feelings that he has for Eames are still newly formed and fragile, but there are feelings and Eames deserves to know that. Arthur clenches his fists, and he stands his ground.

"I want it to be real. I can't keep fucking someone who is you but isn't, looking for the real thing in reflections off of windows and television screens. I want this to be real." Arthur is blunt because he doesn't know how else to put it.

"I want you," Arthur starts again, and he shifts his weight, tucking his hands into his pockets, his cheeks a little warm as he bulls through the rest of it, "I want you to fuck me. As you."

"Arthur-- Well, that's unexpected," Eames says, with the air of someone who has just been sucker punched, which doesn't exactly inspire confidence. He chuckles then, faltering a little, shaking his head. "Okay."

"That's it? Just -- 'okay'?" Arthur parrots. That just seems too easy, Eames never lets him off the hook like that.

There's a long pause where Arthur starts to wonder if he's maybe he's going to have to get out of there while he still has some dignity since it clearly isn't a reciprocal thing. He doesn't owe it to Eames to beg him want him back, to flay himself open for Eames' amusement or whatever. Eames has had enough of him, over the course of their relationship. But he did owe him the truth. Even if this is what finishes things between them, at least Arthur will still be able to respect himself after. 

Eames frowns slightly, like Arthur's earlier words have just now sunk in, and he takes a step back, raising his hands as if to hold Arthur back. "I needed a second to adjust my entire world view, sorry" Eames says, and he at least looks it, his eyes tracing down Arthur's body with something that looks like regret. "But now that you mention it, darling, I am mildly curious as to why now, after all this time."

Arthur's shoulders come up. "Look, I know that you don't like me. You've made that perfectly clear in the past."

Eames laughs in his face, incredulous. "You can't be serious," Eames states, shaking his head when he sees that Arthur is. "It's not that I don't like you, Arthur. Given the opportunity, I could like you very much indeed. But that's not what this is. You told me quite early on that you weren't interested in starting a relationship with me. No complications, I believe it was." 

"That was months ago. Even if I meant it then, I'm allowed to change my mind, Eames," he says, and what he's going to sound pathetic, he already knows, but it's true. "I want to see your face."

The look that abruptly passes over Eames' face is enough to finally calm the nerves that have been eating away at Arthur's self-control. It's hesitant, but interested, like maybe Eames could want that too. Eames shakes his head then, but it's not a denial. It's something like awe. 

"This old thing?" Eames says, a hand fluttering up to his cheek, and his posture slowly relaxes. Opens. Arthur takes that as a cue to move forward, still hesitant, like Eames might bolt for the door at any second. But Eames steps forward too, he meets Arthur in the middle.

He fits their bodies together, Eames' strong arms coming up to settle loosely around his waist. Eames lets out a soft, yearning noise as Arthur licks out over his bottom lip and says with a straight face, "I'm a sucker for a classic," feeling confident enough to tease, because now at least they're back on somewhat familiar ground. 

They've done something like this a hundred times; Eames smiling when he leans in to kiss him. Arthur already knows that Eames is a good kisser, albeit abstractly. But that knowledge is nothing that could have prepared him for this, the way that the shape of Eames' mouth feels against his. It takes Eames no time at all to reduce Arthur to a shivering wreck in his arms, letting Eames support his weight when his knees go embarrassingly weak. They just kiss for a long time. Hands kept firmly above the waist, mouths learning each other's responses anew.

"Ah, and speaking of sucking..." Eames says when he finally peels back, gesturing down at the bulge distorting the front of his pants. He sets a hand on Arthur's shoulder, puts on a bit of suggestive pressure which Arthur resists. "Or not. If you have some objection--" Eames begins to say, raising an eyebrow at him.

Arthur shakes his head, mouth twisting up in a smirk. "No, no objections. Just-- Is that seriously the line you're going with? And here I thought you were a master of seduction."

"Technique is always the first casualty of urgency," Eames informs him seriously, stepping forward and shifting in close enough to undress each other, fingers quick and nimble on each others' buttons and buckles. "And quite honestly, Arthur, I would be delighted to say or not say anything you like, so long as it gets your mouth on my cock."

Arthur takes advantage of the moment to unceremoniously divest himself of his remaining clothes before he sinks to his knees. "Deal," he murmurs, shuffling forward, mouth already watering. Eames groans gratefully as Arthur peels his pants and underwear down, helping him lift his legs to kick them off. And there's Eames' Adinkra tattoo on his hip, exactly how Arthur remembers it. Arthur leans in then, holding the base of Eames cock, stroking it a little, watching him get harder. Arthur gives Eames' tattoo a fond little nibble before turning and sighing hot over the tip of Eames' dick. Eames has a nice cock, as far as Arthur's concerned. Impressive, but not frighteningly so, thick and flushed a pretty color, already a little wet. Arthur does what comes naturally, lapping at the fat head of it with his tongue, licking under Eames' foreskin at the salty taste gathering there. It isn't an act that Arthur has had much practice at. He can't fit as much of Eames in his mouth as he thought he would be able to at first glance, but given the way Eames spreads his thighs to give Arthur better access to his dick, he doesn't seem to have any complaints about Arthur's relative inexperience.

His fingers dig into Arthur's hair, tugging roughly, but it's easy enough to ignore the flaring pain in his scalp with Eames' low voice saying, "It's good, you're so good, Arthur."

Arthur groans a little, stroking a hand up the shaft, rewarded with a burst of precome over his tongue. Fuck, he likes that taste. It taps into something fundamental and primal, something directly linked to Arthur's cock, because he's hard, almost painfully so. He closes his eyes, sucking harder, searching for more, rubbing his hand over Eames' belly, the muscles there twitching under his palm. Eames's mouth has dropped open, his every breath sounds heavy and wet over the sound of Arthur's mouth on his dick.

Arthur can't keep it up for very long. He has to stop to breathe and to adjust his jaw after a few minutes of dedicated sucking. "Mmm, here. Like this," Eames rumbles after Arthur pulls away panting for a third time. He cups the back of Arthur's head in one hand, tilting it back as he rubs his cock over Arthur's cheeks and his swollen bottom lip. Resisting a little when Arthur tries to go back to sucking, clearly getting off on the sight of his cock smearing precome and spit over Arthur's skin, making him dirty. Quite possibly Arthur is getting off on it too, keyed up enough that when Eames finally guides his dick back between Arthur's parted lips, his balls twitch in response, heavy and full between his legs.

Eames makes a low, hissing noise as Arthur tries to take him deeper inside. It doesn't work the first couple of times, Arthur sputtering and backing off with a rueful smile for Eames. But he tries again and again, encouraged by the way Eames sucks in his breath sharply each time Arthur takes another inch of him. Arthur's working up to a measured rhythm. It's an opportunity, being together like this in reality. Knowing that there isn't a timer on them, that they can have as much of each other as they want. Unsurprisingly Arthur doesn't have a problem with taking his time with Eames, doing this right. He slides his mouth down to meet his hand where it's wrapped around the base of Eames' cock, swallowing as he pauses there for as long as he can take it, before easing back. It isn't long after that when Eames' grip on his hair shifts; he's pulling away rather than just pulling. 

"Enough, Arthur, have mercy," he pleads. "Stop a minute before you make me come." 

Arthur relents with some regret. Eames coming is kind of the point, but he clearly has other plans as to how. 

Eames groans a little when Arthur lets up suction and releases him, sitting back on his heels. He smiles though as he looks down at him, rubbing his thumb over Arthur's wet bottom lip, before giving Arthur a hand up. This body of Eames', his real body, is thick and solid. His upper half is imposing as he pulls Arthur to his feet. The broad, defined muscles that shape his shoulders and chest are built for dominance. It would be no trouble at all for him to wrestle Arthur down to the ground-- but, Arthur thinks wildly, maybe he shouldn't get ahead of himself. 

"What would you like, I wonder?" Eames asks, spinning Arthur around, his chest to Arthur's back, his heart hammering against Arthur's skin. "Shall I get you off with my hands? Or would you like to come in my mouth, do you think?" 

Arthur's flushed and breathless, Eames' fingers slotted into the crease of his hips. "Anything. I'd like anything," Arthur says truthfully. "How do you want me?" It's not about what Arthur wants. He needs to know how Eames wants him when it isn't a business transaction, when it isn't a dream. What does Eames like when it's really him, really for him?

He immediately crowds Arthur up against the mattress, heavy on top of him, his weight bearing Arthur down. "Why don't we start here for beginners?" he whispers in Arthur's ear, making Arthur squirm. 

Eames' hips fit perfectly against Arthur's ass, his cock slipping into the cleft between his cheeks, catching against the rim of Arthur's hole on every up thrust. Arthur reaches back, touches where he's wet already from where Eames has been leaking precome all over his skin until Eames swats his hand away. Arthur feels a little flash of disappointment that they won't be able to fuck bare, not here, in the real world. 

"Fuck, your gorgeous arse," Eames growls out, grinding against him, his hands pressing Arthur's cheeks tight around him, looking for friction. 

"You could," Arthur gasps as Eames shoves against him particularly roughly, hips snapping against the skin of Arthur's backside as he fucks against him hard, rocking Arthur's neglected cock against the mattress. Arthur grinds down into it, his eager cries muffled by the soft covers on the bed.

"Don't tempt me, Arthur. You have no idea, not a clue what I would do to you given half a chance," Eames manages to say before he rears back and comes, his semen splattering warm over the expanse of Arthur's back. That's all it takes to force Arthur over the edge, coming suddenly, the feeling hard and hurting, and right, as he curls into the mattress, letting it anchor him to reality.

Arthur can't help it; he gets a thrill from looking over at wrecked sprawl of Eames' body as he collapses sideways across the bed, narrowly avoiding crushing Arthur with his descent. 

"You should know that I find this smugness of yours crass and woefully unappealing," Eames announces with a weak glare when he spots Arthur's admittedly smug grin, but there's a wry tilt to his mouth as he says it.

Arthur crawls in beside him, wriggling against Eames, wanting as much skin on skin contact as possible. "There's nothing about me you don't find appealing," he says, his voice husky, part of his usual sex induced fugue state, feeling fatigue dragging at him now. 

"It's true," Eames says mournfully, petting at Arthur's back, the nape of his neck. "Even this unsightly show of vanity gets my blood up. You should rest. You'll need your energy for later."

"Not too much later," Arthur argues, slow and sleepy, and then his eyes are sliding closed and then he sleeps.

* * *

Eames waits at least a full thirty minutes before poking Arthur awake, looming over him on his hands and knees, a bottle of lube on the pillow next to Arthur's head.

"Is it later already?" Arthur asks grouchily, even as he sleepily accepts the open-mouthed kisses Eames presses to his lips, before he moves over to nip at the heated skin at the slope of Arthur's neck and shoulders. Eames' cock has already gone half-hard, nudging at the space behind Arthur's balls as he urges Arthur's knees up, folding them up against Arthur's chest, spread wide to accommodate the width of Eames' body between them.

Eames spares a glance for the bedside clock, bracing himself on one arm, kissing his way down Arthur's right side; his armpit, the crook of his elbow, the fluttering pulse at his wrist, Arthur smiling the whole while. Kissing at each of Arthur's fingertips, Eames pauses to say, serious and only a little desperate, "I'm quite sure enough time has passed, yes." 

He sucks at the tip of Arthur's middle finger, Arthur stretching out beneath him, a feline and lazy movement that serves to hitch him closer to Eames. Arthur looks up at him then as if this is something special, as if it's something they've never done before. And perhaps they haven't. Eames' tongue darts out, tracing over each of Arthur's fingers in turn, finally getting to enjoy the real taste of Arthur's skin on his tongue.

"We should have done this sooner," Arthur agrees with a pleased sigh. And yes, that's it exactly. He's fucked Arthur before, but this bit is new. He likes this, seeing the little bite marks come up on the puffy pink skin of Arthur's lower lip as he worries it with his teeth, likes following the path of Arthur's sweat as it rolls down and beads at the base of his neck. He wants to watch Arthur's lovely dark eyes as he comes.

Eames inhales deeply, leaving off on Arthur's hand to cup the back of his knees, shifting over Arthur, bending down to kiss him, hard and messy. Arthur will have terrible beard burn come morning, Eames thinks gleefully, rubbing his stubble against Arthur's cheek. Arthur reaches up to trace the curve of Eames' jaw, laughing when Eames nuzzles into the touch. 

"This isn't exactly my area of expertise in the real world," Arthur admits as Eames finally peels away, and he looks painfully hesitant as he runs his hands up Eames' chest. That won't do at all.

"Would you like suggestions?" Eames hums out a thoughtful note. "How about here for starters?" And he guides Arthur's hands down to his nipples, running Arthur's fingers over them until they pebble. He leaves Arthur to explore, groaning openly and appreciatively when Arthur uses his own initiative and tugs at them, gently first, and then harder.

Eames had meant what he said earlier, he would happily fuck Arthur's lovely tight little bum here and now. Yet however sincere Arthur may have been in offering his not entirely virginal arse up to Eames, Eames would be willing to guess that penetration might be something they need to work up to. Ideally, Eames wants this to be better, more memorable than anything that they've done together in the past, because this is real. Eames has options in this endeavor, of course, multitudes of positions and sex acts to try; it's narrowing them down that's a struggle. But for now, perhaps the basics.

Eames tips forward, catching Arthur's mouth, kissing him, letting his weight sink onto him. Arthur takes it eagerly, his mouth open and lush, little greedy sighs slipping out against Eames' lips. And there's no doubt now, Arthur is hungry for this, all arms and legs suddenly, wrapped and clinging around Eames' body, reeling Eames back in every time he dares draw back to take a breath, to just stop and look at Arthur pinned under him. It should be unflattering, the way he looks at this moment; his matted hair, and his knobby knees folded up to his armpits, the splotchy flush all down his chest. And yet Eames can barely breathe for wanting him.

"You're gorgeous. Arthur. Has anyone ever told you that you are absolutely, stunningly gorgeous?" Eames asks, he can't stop himself from asking.

"No, this would be a first," Arthur replies indulgently, and he gives Eames the widest smile.

"Fuck, your dimples," Eames groans, leaning in to dash kisses over them. "Gorgeous. I love this, I love fucking you. You're so good, you're always so good."

Arthur's eyes have gone half-lidded and dreamy as Eames trails his palms down Arthur's navel, to the juncture of his thighs and the neatly trimmed hair at his groin, tilting his hips up to cup at his arse. Eames rocks against him, their cocks somewhat incidentally rubbing between their two stomachs. 

Arthur's staring at him, as if he's afraid to blink and miss something, his hands still mapping Eames' body with a focus that would probably border on disturbing, if Eames gave a bloody fuck, if he wasn't loving every second of it. They're appreciating each other in a way that they haven't, savoring this moment like they couldn't before. It's nothing Eames should ever have allowed himself to want, having Arthur this way, and finding himself having simply been given it, so easily, so freely, blows him away.

"I could spout some trite nonsense about taking you any way I could get you when this started, but it wasn't like that, Arthur. It was just a lark at first," he confesses abruptly because there's not really going to be a better time for him to say it. 

"I know that. I knew that." Arthur frowns, taking a deep breath first, and Eames understands, he does, because as brave as Arthur is at facing down an army of projections, simple vulnerability has never sat well on him. He reaches out, clutching tight to Eames' waist, before he continues. "To be honest, at first I just wanted you because you were uncomplicated and convenient. You're not either, exactly, but I still want you. Just you." 

"You have me." Eames tucks Arthur's hair back behind his ears, carefully, reverently. He's unabashed in his staring, he wants to memorize Arthur, just as he is right now. Arthur circles his hips, an experimental movement, causing Eames to groan, thrusting back helplessly in response, and promise him, "I'm going to make you come so hard that you won't remember your own name."

Eames casts about for the bottle of lube decisively, but caught up as he is by the neat grip of Arthur's thighs, he only manages to nudge at it with the tips of two fingers, his reach not quite long enough to grab a hold of it. 

"Although easier said than done without supplies," Eames says, gesturing to his side of the bed. 

"Since when do you care about easy?" Arthur scoffs, but he relents, relaxing his hold enough that Eames can lean over and snatch up the bottle. 

Eames pauses, distracted by the helpless twitching of Arthur's hips pinned down by his, Eames tilting his own hips into each thrust as Arthur slowly rubs up against him, searching for the angle that works best, giving both of their cocks much needed attention until Eames' pulse picks up and he almost completely forgets what he's about. Eames stills eventually, tearing his gaze away, only just remembering his plan, such as it was, struggling to open the bottle of lube one handed. 

Arthur laughs at his loss of focus, of course he does, though the laugh cuts off with a swift indrawn breath as Eames drags wet fingers low on the inside of Arthur's thigh, Arthur fairly vibrating off of the bed as Eames cups his balls. 

He dips his head, mouthing at the hollow of Arthur's collarbone, his hand fondling Arthur's sack, tugging at the loose folds of skin. Arthur digs his fingers into Eames' biceps, his long body strung tight as a bow as Eames takes his precious time, spending what must feel like hours spreading lube over the base of Arthur's cock, testing both their patience. Arthur pants and sweats, fighting it, trying to thrust into Eames' grasp, swearing in frustration when Eames contrarily slows even further. His responses are distracting enough that Eames almost forgets the lack of friction on his own cock, busily cooing little soothing nothings to Arthur as he fondles him until he finally relaxes into Eames' care, accepts his pace. So much so that he lets out a loud surprised gasp when Eames finally wraps his hand around Arthur's cock, as perfectly delectable as the rest of him, and strokes him, quick and firm. 

Arthur adjusts to the change with a complete loss of inhibition, cursing Eames and praising him in equal measure. Eames can't stand it much longer, each of the hot, urgent noises that Arthur makes sparking through him, from his gut down to his groin.

There's much to be said for selflessness and to seeing to the needs of your partner, Eames feels rather strongly about it in fact, but Eames is also very attached to the idea of coming. Sooner rather than later for preference. Eames settles back on his heels, body gone rather tense and shocky, as he fumbles the bottle of lube in his slick fingers. He manages to loosen the top, shaking a little as he takes Arthur's hands in his own to wet them and to guide them down to wrap around both of their cocks. They both groan at the sensation, their cocks both wrapped up in Arthur's firm grip, their gazes locked on each other. Eames still contrary enough to draw it out a little longer, his grip on Arthur's wrist keeping the pace slow and steady for as long as he can stand it, with Arthur wide-eyed, mindlessly begging him to finish it. 

Eames shushes him patiently, shifting forward enough that his lips hover over Arthur's, catching them on every upstroke, swallowing his pleas. Arthur's eyelashes flutter against Eames' cheek, his dark eyes consuming at this range. And then he lets Arthur go, lets him take control, and perhaps Eames has been consumed because nothing exists aside from Arthur in that moment, under him and around him, his come hot against Eames' belly as the pull of his hand drags Eames forward into desperate pleasure, the release relentlessly good. 

Eames folds into Arthur as he comes, pinning him down, Arthur's legs locked around him, his toes digging into the back of Eames' calves. Arthur smooths the sweaty strands of Eames' hair away from his forehead, his eyes still blurry and dazed, their mouths haphazardly sliding together as they kiss and kiss again. 

Eames tucks his chin into the side of Arthur's neck after, simply breathing him in. Their fingers are still tangled together over Arthur's belly, and their legs under the sheets. He's too heavy to stay on top of Arthur like this for much longer, but for now it's nice. Intimate in a way that Eames hadn't quite realized was possible for them. If he has his way, it would be like this tomorrow, and the day after that, on and on.

He grins suddenly, hidden against the shell of Arthur's ear. This isn't a dream he can wake from. 

* * *

"You do realize neither one of us could rightly be called a solid bet in a relationship," Eames points out the next morning over breakfast, spooning dots of honey onto his toast, yawning slightly, his posture completely relaxed in juxtaposition with how serious his tone is.

Arthur swallows his last bit of fig, rolling his eyes. "It's a good thing we both like a challenge."

"Then we're trying this. You and me, and some odd approximation of a relationship?" Eames asks bluntly. He manages to sound unaffected, focused on fixing his tea, but Arthur's getting better at reading him. Eames still half-doubts it, like he can't entirely believe Arthur could want him as he really is. Not yet.

"Yeah. I want to try," Arthur says, meeting Eames' gaze and nodding firmly. And that's Eames trusting him enough to nod back, accepting him at his word. 

"Then I'll leave it to you to fill in the details," Eames says, picking up his cup of tea, smiling at Arthur demurely, because he's still an asshole.

But apparently Arthur's used to it by now, so maybe that's why he suddenly blurts out, "Stay here with me."

Eames' eyes widen as he sets his cup clumsily down with a loud clatter against the saucer. "Until the job is finished? You'll be sick of the sight of me before much longer."

Arthur looks over at Eames, who has dark circles under his eyes, slouched over the table wearing yesterday's clothes. He's still the most appealing thing Arthur's seen in a long time. Which might be stupidly sentimental of him but, Arthur supposes, there's no help for that. He shakes his head, smiling, and sure. "No, I don't think I will be."

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](http://pluvial-poetry.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/rottenandrich)!


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